


They Shall Have Stars

by jehans



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-30 01:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though lovers be lost, love shall not, and death shall have no dominion.</p><p>Even in another life, they'll find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Orestes and Pylades

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely inspired and informed by these beautiful works: {[x](http://perplexingly.tumblr.com/post/43555060469/i-wanted-to-try-drawing-reincarnations-too)} {[x](http://perplexingly.tumblr.com/post/43573135380/continuation-of-this-because-of)}  
> Title and description come from Dylan Thomas' "And Death Shall Have No Dominion"

You’ve always sort of felt like you must have been someone in a previous life.

Not necessarily someone particularly _important_ , even, but maybe someone who mattered to one who _was_.

And you actually didn’t believe in reincarnation — well, you _don’t_ believe in reincarnation, really. Not at all.

Except then you read “The Libation Bearers” (because you are a massive asshole who absorbs all things Classics-related like a fucking pretentious sponge), and you almost _felt_ something actually click inside you. He’d had one line, and that was it, but you’d felt it — a kind of familiarity like _you_ had said those words. Which didn’t even make sense, because it’s not even something you would say, but still. You felt like you’d found yourself in Pylades.

After that, you tore through everything: Sophocles, Homer, Euripides. “Iphigenia in Tauris” made your heart beat faster than it should have. When you read Lucian, you cried. It was like you _missed him_. Which is absurd. Orestes was never even real, you’ve tried to reason with yourself, and you never knew him. You can’t miss him.

Still, you do. Like an aching inside you, like a hole.

 _You miss him_.

It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. It’s what brings you to the museum every week at two o’clock on sundays, like you’re attending church or something. You gaze at his likeness in paint and marble and you _ache_ for him. You come here to find him, but you never actually expect to.

Until today.

He’s standing in front of your favorite painting: the Bouchot, the one where you’re — no, _he’s_ — protecting him while shadowy, half-exposed figures fall away in the background. He’s just _standing there_ , his hair like gilt, his shoulders set like a goddamn Greek hero, his fingers absently tapping on the strap of his bag draped over his chest. He’s there. He’s _here._

Orestes.

No.

_Yes!_

_Enjolras._

It’s like a tsunami, sweeping you away. You imagine — no, you _remember_ France and the revolution, the barricade, the guns, his hand in yours. His smile. You can’t breathe, your head is spinning, you can’t see. Tears are filling your eyes and you _can’t fucking breathe_.

You want to touch him, to take his hand, to ask him if he permits it. But what if he doesn’t remember you? What if he pulls away?

What if you’re wrong?

You’re not wrong. It’s him. He’s here. You can _feel him_.

Before you can pull yourself together enough to even blink away the tears in your eyes, he turns and starts to move away. He doesn’t stop at other paintings, it’s like he was just here for this one and now he’s _leaving._

You rasp out a word, too quiet to hear. _Wait._ No. He’s going, he can’t leave.

“Wait!” you finally gasp out, but you’re still too quiet. You manage to shout, “Don’t go!” _Not without me._

He stops, and turns around to stare at you, a kind of quiet, bemused disdain etched across his face and you nearly grin because you know that expression on that face and the haunting blue of his eyes _so well_ , but you just cry harder. He’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind, and maybe you have, but _he’s here._

You stumble up to him, reaching out to grasp his arm before he can stop you, and for a moment, he jerks back. But then he looks at your face, where tears are now streaming down your cheeks, and his deep blue eyes flicker with something wild. You feel his hand grip your elbow. And then he smiles.

“It’s you,” he says, and you want to respond, but you can’t stop crying. His arm pulls out of your grasp as his hands come up to hold your face and neck, his thumbs brush against your skin and you feel like you could faint.

Then he leans in and you can’t breathe again. His lips press gently against your cheek, over a trail of your tears, and then he’s slipping his arms all the way around your shoulders, one hand in your hair on the back of your head, and drags you in to him, embracing you and holding you so tightly you want to die in this moment because he’s here and he’s holding you and nothing can ever, in your whole life, be better than this. Your arms, thank god, respond quicker than your brain, and have wrapped around his waist, holding him too. You sob into his shoulder and his fingers circle reassuringly on your scalp.

“Enjolras,” you gasp against his shirt.

“Pylades,” he breathes back. He sounds like music feels in your gut.

You shudder. “Orestes?”

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Grantaire.”

“I love you,” you tell him, still sobbing, because you didn’t ever tell him last time and damned if you’re going to do that again.

“I know,” he says back, and it’s more than enough for you. Then his lips are next to your ear, and he whispers, “Thank you. For last time. Thank you.”

You turn your face into his neck and cry even harder. And he holds you tighter.

_He’s here._


	2. Theseus, Orpheus, and Perseus

You’ve been staring at them for days.

They don’t come in to the coffee shop at the same time, they don’t sit together, they barely glance at you, but there’s something about them. You feel like you’ve known them before, but you just can’t place them.

The little one who’s always wearing sweaters way too big for him and half the time has flowers he probably picked on the way here laced through his hair is always curled up in the corner near the window where he can bask in the sunshine, sometimes scribbling in a battered notebook he always has with him, sometimes jotting things on his wrists and arms instead, and sometimes gazing dreamily out the window. He’s kind of mesmerizing, and you’re sure he’s familiar.

The taller one, the one with the thick-framed glasses, always orders a coffee black and then commandeers an entire table — always the same one — with his armada of text books and notes. He sits with his back to the sweater boy and they never acknowledge each other, but you feel like they should. You want them to be friends.

Why aren’t they friends?

Tina, one of your coworkers, pokes you in the ribs as you’re leaning against the counter, squinting back and forth from one to the other.

“Chris,” she snaps, bringing you back to reality. “Either go hit on them, or stop gaping at them, it’s getting creepy.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, tearing away from them. “I don’t want to hit on them — okay, maybe I wouldn’t _mind_ ,” you admit when Tina shoots you a look. “But it’s not — you know what, nevermind.”

Tina smirks and hands you a towel. “Tables need cleaning,” she says, then walks away.

You go straight to the table next to the man with the glasses. Your eyes are on him as you clean, staring and trying to figure it out. . .until you realize you’ve been wiping down the back of your hand for the past twenty seconds. When your eyes jump off of him, they flit to the sweater boy. _Who’s looking at you_.

His eyes drop the second yours meet his, but in that tiny moment, something in you jumps toward him.

Then someone curses next to you and you hear a clatter on the floor before something bumps against your foot. You look down at the marker highlighter that’s run into your shoe and duck down to pick it up.

“Sorry,” a voice next to you is muttering in exasperation, “I’m not usually —”

“It’s fine, dude,” you cut him off, turning with hand extended to return his highlighter. But then you look at each other.

And the highlighter drops to the floor between you.

“Combeferre?” you breathe, your mouth dropping open, your heart rising. You _do_ know him. You lived and fought and died by his side.

“Courfeyrac?!” It comes from across the room and you spin around to see sweater boy — _Jehan!_ — staring wide-eyed at you, half risen out of his seat.

“Jehan!” Combeferre calls out to him as you launch your whole self across the coffee shop toward him.

He manages to fully stand right before you tackle him back down onto the arm chair in the biggest hug you’ve probably ever given in all your lives. Jehan laughs in your ear, and you feel like you could cry.

“ _I’ve missed you_ ,” you tell him enthusiastically because _god_ is that true.

When you push yourself up off of him, his delighted grin is watery and it makes you tear up too. Combeferre is right behind you, and Jehan stands, brushing warmly past you to throw his arms around him, too. Combeferre squeezes him, one hand on the back of his head, and when they pull away from each other, he turns to you.

His embrace is warm and friendly and _so familiar_ , you cry a little. He laughs at you when he looks at you, but it’s a kind laugh. Jehan throws his arms around both of your necks and turns to kiss your cheek, then Combeferre’s.

“Have you seen any of the others?” Combeferre is asking you.

You shake your head. “I didn’t realize until just now,” you breathe.

“Me neither,” he says and Jehan kisses his cheek again, then yours. His lips are warm and lovely and _real_ and you just can’t believe they’re here with you, that they found you.

“Probably at least Enjolras is around,” Jehan says, just absolutely tearfully radiant with joy. You can’t help but let out a sort of delighted laugh. _You found each other_.

Combeferre nods. “We should find him, I guess,” he says.

It occurs to you that you might be making a scene, three relatively grown men with their arms around each other, crying and laughing and yelling French names at each other in the middle of a coffee house. You rather don’t care.

“We’ll have to find out what his name is, though,” Jehan is saying. He leans a little to glance at your name tag. “Chris?” he asks you and you feel like you might actually blush.

“Yeah,” you say reluctantly.

“I like it!” Jehan declares. “It suits you.”

You grin. “I think I like Courfeyrac better,” you admit.

“Better than Theseus, too?” Combeferre asks you quietly.

You blink as yet another life floods back to you. “Oh yeah,” you whisper. “Theseus. I forgot.”

“What about you, Perseus?” Jehan is asking, poking Combeferre with the hand he’s got strung over his shoulders.

Combeferre laughs. “Daniel,” he says. “Bit boring, I’m afraid.”

“I love it,” you say, “it’s perfect for you. And our Orpheus?”

Jehan blushes. “Eoin,” he says. “With an E.”

“God, you haven’t changed a bit,” you say, darting forward to kiss _his_ cheek this time, and his grin and blush both deepen. And then in a moment it feels like your stomach has dropped out of your body because you’ve just remembered the last time you saw him.

Well, actually, the last time you heard his voice.

You sort of shove Combeferre out of the way on accident as you gather Jehan up in your arms and hug him as tightly as you possibly can.

He makes a strangled sort of surprised noise, but you whisper vehemently to him. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there. You shouldn’t have been alone. I am _so sorry._ ”

He freezes. And then his arms wrap around you too, and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. And you can feel the warm wetness of tears on his face. Because he died alone. You died beside the others, but he was taken and held down and shot, and he was alone.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe again, like that could possibly help.

He hugs you tighter. “Thank you,” you hear him squeak.

Combeferre, when you look up at him, is just sort of watching you with a gentle expression of understanding on his face. When you finally let go of Jehan, he reaches forward and squeezes his hand. He’s not alone anymore.

None of you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since they all have had three lives now, they have three names. So just in case that's a bit confusing, this is how these guys went:
> 
> Theseus - Courfeyrac - Chris  
> Orpheus - Jean Prouvaire - Eoin  
> Perseus - Combeferre - Daniel


	3. Mycenae

As it turns out, remembering your past lives is _exhausting_. Courfeyrac offers his apartment as a place to sit down for a while (his shift is ending anyway, and it’s right around the corner), so the three of them set out together. Jehan keeps flitting between the other two, holding their hands and they walk.

When he slips his fingers through Courfeyrac’s for the third time, Courfeyrac yanks him closer and throws his arm around his shoulders instead. He’s just so happy the three of them are together.

“So how far _is_ your place, Courf — uh, Chris?” Combeferre asks.

“One more block,” Courfeyrac answers, but then he nearly runs right into Combeferre, who has stopped dead. “Woah, what happened?” he asks, pulling Jehan out of the way so he doesn’t get smushed.

Combeferre doesn’t answer, he just veers off the sidewalk towards a flower stand, where a thin young man is examining a daisy with great care. Surprising everyone, Combeferre seizes this young man and spins him around.

Courfeyrac and Jehan gasp as one. It is unmistakably Joly.

He looks alarmed and afraid and confused — until he sees Combeferre’s face. His mouth drops open and his eyes widen and then he bursts into tears, falling into Combeferre, who hugs him.

Jehan grins at Courfeyrac.

 

Enjolras and Grantaire end up in Enjolras’ apartment, Grantaire somewhat awkwardly following Enjolras home down the street, on the train. When they get inside, Enjolras offers coffee and Grantaire accepts just to have something in his hands. Then he leans against the little table while Enjolras leans against the kitchen counter, and they sip, carefully avoiding making eye contact.

“So what’s your name?” Grantaire asks just so break the silence and Enjolras laughs because it’s absurd. They’ve known each other in two lives and in one of them they loved each other and they don’t even know each other’s names.

“Alexander,” Enjolras answers. “And yours?”

“Peter,” Grantaire scoffs, but Enjolras half-smiles.

“Peter,” he nods.

It’s almost like he’s relieved. Like he’s glad for something to call him. He could call him Grantaire or Pylades or whatever the hell he wanted, and Grantaire would accept it gladly, but it seems like a relief, for some reason, to say the name _Peter_.

There’s another silence in which Grantaire chews on his lip and tries not to stare at the way Enjolras’ — Alexander’s — shoulder curves into his neck, or the way his hair falls over his ears. He looks the same as he always has, he’s just as beautiful, just as terrible, just as awe-inspiring. Just as breathtaking.

His eyes are just as blue.

Grantaire wants to touch him, to trace the curve of his spine, to call him Enjolras or Alexander or _Orestes_. To know him as he once did, to feel him like he used to. To run his tongue along the line of his chest to see if he tastes the same as he did when they basked on Grecian beaches and had honey on their lips. If he tasted the same when he was splattered with blood. Grantaire suddenly wonders if this man will always be destined to drench himself in someone else’s blood.

He looks away quickly when he notices he’s staring. Enjolras shifts, maybe uncomfortably.

He’s been staring, too.

Maybe he’s trying to figure this all out, too. Probably he’s been looking because he’s trying to figure out how his Pylades and that frustrating drunkard Grantaire and this stranger in front of him could possibly be the same person. He’s certainly not thinking the same debauched things Grantaire is.

He can’t be.

Finally, Enjolras sighs. “Peter,” he says carefully, “I think there are some things we should talk about.”

 

Joly comes back to Courfeyrac’s with them. He keeps staring around at them all like he can’t believe they’re real. They all make the necessary introductions for this life (Joly’s name this time is Liam), and it’s not until they get inside Courfeyrac’s small, messy, but wonderfully homey loft apartment that Joly looks around in a slight panic.

“Where’s Bossuet?” he asks breathlessly.

“We haven’t found him, yet,” Combeferre responds, his voice instantly taking on that soothing tone he used to use with all of them whenever they were worked up over something.

Joly casts around the apartment, like maybe Bossuet is hiding behind the couch or something and he’ll catch sight of his shiny head if only he looks hard enough. “And Musichetta?” he asks, looking increasingly anxious.

Jehan looks genuinely upset for him as Courfeyrac shakes his head gently. “Sorry.”

“Well, we have to find them!” Joly cries, turning to Combeferre. “They’re here, right? They came too?”

“They must have,” Jehan pipes up. “If we’re all here, they _must_ be here.”

“At least Bossuet,” Courfeyrac agrees as Jehan reaches out to squeeze Joly’s arm reassuringly. “I’m sure Musichetta is here, too.”

“Then we have to find them!” Joly says again, his eyes still fixed on Combeferre, who sighs, then glances at Courfeyrac.

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to do that,” he admits.

Courfeyrac shrugs and Jehan wraps his arm around Joly’s waist to try to comfort him.

“I mean, we all found each other just by chance,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s possible we could find the others just by chance, too.”

Combeferre considers this. “Do you think we should just walk down the street?” he asks. “Let fate bring us together?”

Courfeyrac shrugs again. “Maybe. It brought the four of us together.”

“I do really want to find Enjolras,” Combeferre says quietly, almost to himself.

“I wonder if Grantaire is out there, too,” Jehan says. “I hope he’s not alone.”

Combeferre nods, seeming to come to a conclusion. “Very well,” he says. “Jo — Liam and I will go out looking for the others. Chris, Eoin, you stay here. Give me your phone numbers in case Liam and I need anything.”

“Yes, Daniel,” Courfeyrac says almost mockingly — grinning when Combeferre shoots him a look — as Jehan lets go of Joly to give Combeferre his cell phone number.

When everything is arranged and set, Combeferre gives a meet-up time (which basically just means he and Joly plan on being back before dinner), and then the two of them head out.

Jehan has flopped down onto the bed, lying across the width near the headboard and staring at the ceiling. After Combeferre and Joly have shut the door behind them, Courfeyrac joins him, throwing himself onto the foot of the bed on this stomach.

“I’m so tired,” Jehan sighs.

“Me too,” Courfeyrac agrees. He turns his face to look up at Jehan. “You can sleep, if you want,” he says. “They’ll be out for a while, we could take a nap.” Then he sort of makes a weird, amused face and adds, “Eoin.”

‘Eoin’ groans. “Please call me Jehan,” he says. “I like Jehan. I picked Jehan. I didn’t pick Eoin.”

“Or Orpheus,” Courfeyrac points out.

Jehan glances at him. “I barely remember being Orpheus,” he confesses quietly. “It’s like it was a dream, or something. Do you remember being Theseus?”

Courfeyrac pauses, then sighs. He’s so tired, too. “We should talk about that — and about France — after we nap, I think,” he says.

Jehan nods, his eyes closing. “Okay,” he murmurs. He really is wiped.

Turning his face into the mattress, Courfeyrac reaches out blindly and finds Jehan’s hand with his, clasping it just to have some sort of contact with his friend while they sleep. Just to know they’re not all going to lose each other again if he closes his eyes.

Jehan smiles.


	4. Antigone and Icarus

The thing is, she didn’t even know she _had_ a half-brother until recently, when some lady in a pencil skirt had shown up at her door and told her that her father had died ( _finally_ , she’d thought), and she was the next-of-kin and potential legal guardian of her half-brother, Michael, should she accept.

Which she had.

And she still has no idea _why_ she’d accepted. She hates her father and everything he’s ever done to her, and why she would want another piece of him living in her house (besides the piece living in her soul), she can’t say. But she supposes there’s probably a piece of her in this Michael kid, too, and something in her wants to find out.

And then she sees him, standing there next to this pencil skirt, looking so _utterly familiar_ , and it all comes rushing back to her.

She manages to nod and respond to everything the social worker is telling her, but her eyes don’t stray from this kid. He’s looking around her apartment, unperturbed as he always was, and he nods and waves to the pencil skirt as it leaves.

Then, when it’s gone, he turns and flashes her a ridiculously cheeky smile.

She darts forward and scoops him up, ignoring his protests.

“Gavroche, oh my god!” she’s gasping.

He wriggles in her grasp. “Éponine,” he whines, “put me down!”

“I had no idea!” Éponine is rambling instead. “I didn’t even know I had a brother, let alone _you_. Oh god, did you die on the barricade? Did you know I was there?”

“Époniiiiinnneeee,” Gavroche moans. “What even _is_ your name here?”

“Lily,” she responds, letting him go. “Michael?”

“Mikey,” Gavroche corrects. And then squawks in protest when Éponine grabs his face and plants a large, loud kiss on the top of his head.

“Oh _god_ , I’m so glad to see you, kid!”

 

When Jehan wakes up, Courfeyrac is still holding his hand. He smiles (he’s not alone anymore), and tugs, waking Courfeyrac, who snorts a little and blinks before he turns to see Jehan and grins.

“Hey, you’re still here,” he says.

Jehan laughs. “Yeah, and the others are still out,” he observes, pulling his hand out of Courfeyrac’s to sit up.

Courfeyrac is glad to stretch his fingers, but he rather misses the warmth. He pushes himself up too and shuffles over to his kitchenette to put on some coffee. “I hope they find everyone,” he says over his shoulder as he reaches up for the coffee filters on top of the cabinet. When he turns back around, Jehan’s eyes flit up to meet his. Courfeyrac vaguely wonders where he’d been looking before, but then Jehan is answering him.

“I hope so, too,” he says casually, shifting around until he’s sitting tailor-fashion in the middle of the bed. “Joly was so upset.”

“Well,” Courfeyrac begins, turning on the coffee maker, “you know how he’s always felt about them, right?”

Jehan hesitates for a second, but then smiles and nods. “Yes, of course I do.”

“I mean they’ve always been together, right?” Courfeyrac asks, searching for two clean mugs in his cabinets. “Even in Greece?”

“I think so,” Jehan says. “Hey, speaking of Greece.”

Courfeyrac turns around and places the two mugs he found on the counter, looking straight at Jehan. “Yeah, speaking of Greece.”

“How much do you remember?” Jehan asks.

Courfeyrac thinks for a moment, wetting his lips. There are vague memories of his life as Theseus, but it’s just flashes of monsters and battles and Athens. It feels too long ago to remember it properly. It feels, like Jehan said, like a vivid dream. He says as much and Jehan nods.

“Me too.”

The coffee maker finishes and Courfeyrac pours coffee into the two mugs. “Cream?” he asks. “Sugar?”

“Cream,” Jehan answers, smiling, “and plenty of it.”

“No sugar?”

Jehan shakes his head.

When Courfeyrac has finished fixing both coffees (one with cream and no sugar, one with plenty of sugar and just a dollop of cream), he brings them back to the bed, handing Jehan’s to him and crossing his legs.

“What do you remember?” Jehan asks now.

“Battles,” Courfeyrac answers. “Monsters. More battles. Athens? That’s it. What about you?”

“Music, mostly,” Jehan said, a far-away look resting over his face. “Hades, a little.”

“Eurydice?” Courfeyrac asks and Jehan looks troubled.

“Barely,” he admits. “I wish I remembered her better, but. . . .” He trails off and shrugs, feeling a terribly oppressive kind of guilt in his heart.

It’s an almost overwhelming relief when Courfeyrac reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Maybe you’re not supposed to,” he says softly. “She didn’t ever come back with you, did she? Maybe forgetting her is like a defense mechanism.”

Jehan sighs and nods. “Maybe,” he says.

“What about France?” Courfeyrac asks. “Do you remember France?”

Jehan looks up. “Like we were still there,” he says, smiling just a little.

Courfeyrac grins back. “Me too.”

They still haven’t let go of each other’s hands.

 

Dinner is frozen lasagna because Éponine is too overwhelmed to try to cook, but Gavroche just digs into it.

“So when did you leave Dad’s?” he asks about halfway through the meal, mouth full.

“I was six,” Éponine answers. “I went to live with my mom. She wasn’t great, but she was better than he was. She died about three years ago. I do fine on my own now.”

“Me too,” Gavroche answers.

“You don’t seem sad he died,” Éponine points out.

Gavroche meets her gaze. “Neither do you.”

“He was a piece of shit.”

Gavroche laughs. “Yep,” he says, then goes back to eating. “I did know you were there, by the way,” he adds, not looking at her. She knows he means the barricade. “Not until you were shot, but I saw you then.”

“Did you die there?” Éponine asks.

Gavroche nods, still looking down at his lasagna. “Who were you in Greece?” he asks.

“Antigone,” Éponine answers instantly, though she didn’t remember until she says it.

“I don’t know who that is,” Gavroche shrugs.

Éponine laughs. “Who were you?”

Gavroche looks proud when he answers. “Icarus.”

Éponine puts down her fork. She finds she isn’t that hungry anymore. Because this kid — her brother — has died young in every life he’s had. He’s never had a chance to grow up.

She supposes she hasn’t really, either.

Suddenly, she finds herself with a kind of unearthly determination that this time, they will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I way oversimplified the legal guardian/adoption process, but as that's not supposed to be the focus of the piece anyway, i do hope you'll forgive me. :]


	5. Achilles and Briseis

He’s being mugged when she sees him, cowering under his arms as someone throws punches at his head and another scoops up his fallen wallet and phone. She yells after them, running to help, but she can’t catch up to them before they run away.

He’s sitting on the ground, now, leaning up against the wall and dabbing under his nose with one finger to see if it’s bleeding (it is, but only a little). She crouches down to see if he’s all right.

“Did they hurt you badly?” she asks softly, reaching out to touch his arm as though to prove she means no harm.

“No,” he's saying back to her, “no more than usual.”

She frowns. “You know them?”

He shrugs. “Not them, specifically, but I get mugged pretty often — Musichetta?!” He gasps, staring up at her.

She yelps. “Bossuet!”

And then she’s thrown herself onto him and is hugging him as tightly as she can manage, and he laughs disbelievingly.

“James, now,” he manages to sputter when she’s let him go again.

Musichetta grins at him. “Priya,” she returns.

“Where’s Joly?” James asks immediately, his eyes light with hope.

Musichetta breathes. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I just found you.”

The color drains out of Bossuet’s face. “He’s not here?”

“I don’t know,” Musichetta says again as Bossuet leaps to his feet, casting around like he might just spot Joly somewhere on the street.

“I need him,” he’s muttering frantically almost to himself. “Where is he? I need him!”

“Come on,” Musichetta says soothingly, standing up to take his hand. “My house is nearby. Come home with me and we’ll figure out what to do.”

The look James shoots at her very clearly says, _I don’t want you_ , but she bites back the sting that causes and kisses his cheek before tugging on his hand to take him home.

 

Grantaire takes a huge breath. Enjolras is just staring at him now, not speaking. Neither of them are speaking.

Grantaire wets his lips. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid of talking too loudly, of taking up too much space.

Enjolras — Alexander — sighs. He wets his lips, too. “I didn’t realize who you were,” he says softly, looking down at the ground. “Who I was.”

Grantaire knows he’s talking about France. That he didn’t realize his Pylades was there with him in that too-often drunk ingrate that used to heckle him from the table in the corner.

“I didn’t either,” he whispers confusedly. Of course they hadn’t known. Why was that something they had to talk about?

“But I —” Alexander starts and then stops and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Grantaire almost grins. He’s always done that.

“Peter,” he starts again, but Grantaire interrupts him.

“Please stop calling me Peter,” he groans.

Alexander stares at him. “I can’t,” he says in a low voice.

Grantaire snorts. “You can call me Grantaire.”

“No,” Alexander insists,”I can’t.”

“Why not?” Grantaire demands, entirely confused now.

“Because I was horrible to Grantaire,” Enjolras bursts out.

Grantaire blinks. That is. . .not what he expected. He feels his heart constrict in his chest. He can’t breathe again.

“All you did was love me,” Enjolras continues softly, “and I hated you.”

Grantaire is practically gasping for air. “You hated me?”

“Well, no,” Enjolras sighs, shaking his head, “I didn’t. But I acted like I did.”

“I was frustrating,” Grantaire mutters, because he knows he was, “it’s okay.”

“No,” Enjolras insists. “I was terrible to you. And you didn’t deserve that. And when I think about Greece and — if I’d known who you were — who _I_ was —” He cuts of, gasping for air himself. Grantaire wants to reach out and touch him but his arms are like lead.

“Alexander?” he whispers instead.

Alexander fixes him with that same intense stare he’s always had, forever. “It would proably be a bit much for me to ask you to forgive me?” he asks weakly.

Peter sputters. “There’s nothing to —”

“There is, Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes, and the sound of his name makes Grantaire’s heart stop. “There is.”

It’s absurd. It’s not possible. Peter can clearly remember their lives in France and _he’d_ been the terrible one. He’d been drunk and abrasive and cynical and frustrating and he’s still many of those things and in Greece he was many of those things but OrestesEnjolrasAlexander is light to him. The sun. He’s the thing to which PeterGrantairePylades’ whole life — all his lives — turn and bend and sway. It’s this man, sitting in front of him, staring deep into his soul. This man could snap his fingers and Peter would follow him into hell. Has followed him into hell. Will follow him still.

Enjolras bites down on his lower lip and Grantaire thinks that he _was_ terrible. But Grantaire would keep every terrible, cruel, harsh word and glance safely deep inside his heart. It was enough for him.

And then he remembers his smile.

The smile that Orestes would grace him with when they stretched out together on bed mats every night before their lives became nothing but blood and revenge. The curl of Enjolras’ lips as he took his hand and looked almost _relieved_ to see Grantaire there, to die with him.

It occurs to him that Alexander must remember those smiles, too.

His breath catches in his chest. “I don’t understand.”

Alexander sighs. “Neither do I,” he admits.

They’re close, so close. Alexander has fixed him with such a violently _important_ stare and neither are breathing, not really. Not well.

Finally, Alexander whispers, “You told me you love me.”

Peter can’t speak, so he nods. Yes, he loves him, _of course_ he loves him.

“Still?” Enjolras asks like this is the most important question in the universe.

Grantaire heaves a sigh. “Always,” he almost sobs.

And that’s enough. Enjolras takes a step forward. His hands light on Grantaire’s waist like he’s afraid to hold too tightly, like Grantaire might slip away. Grantaire closes his eyes. He can feel the heat from Enjolras breath, from his body.

And then lips press against his lips and he gasps and opens his eyes again and he’s falling, drowning. He knows this kiss. He missed this kiss. This is like air and now — _now_ he can breathe. He’s spent two whole lives suffocating, asphyxiating, but now — as hands tighten over his waist and his mouth opens into the sweetness of the man he’s always, always loved — he can.

Finally, he can breathe.


	6. Patroclus

When Grantaire finally pulls away from Enjolras’ kiss to gasp for air, Enjolras’ hands are on his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. Grantaire opens his mouth to say a name, but he gets caught between three, and it doesn’t really matter anyway. Enjolras is pressing their foreheads together and ghosting his lips over Grantaire’s nose.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes.

Grantaire laughs because what the hell _else_ would he do right now? His hands are fisted in Enjolras shirt and he tugs, pulling Enjolras in to kiss again.

“Oh _god_ , I missed you,” Enjolras moans into his mouth. “I’m so sorry —”

“Stop apologizing, Orestes,” Grantaire mumbles, grinning and pulling him even closer, needing every inch of him pressed again every inch of himself, trailing kisses over his jawline.

Enjolras tilts his head to give Grantaire better access to the column of his throat. “It was my fault, though,” he tries to protest, but strong, familiar arms are snaking around him, hands splaying on his back, and he almost forgets what he’s saying.

“Stop talking and kiss me again,” Grantaire growls against his skin. “I’m here now, so just. . .kiss me.”

Enjolras obeys.

 

“Where are they?”

Liam keeps muttering to himself as his eyes cast around the streets and it’s hurting Daniel’s heart a little.

“We’ll find them,” he says again, and Liam’s eyes shoot to him.

“What if we don’t?” he asks. They’ve been out here searching the streets and cafés and bookshops and god knows where else for almost four hours to absolutely no avail.

“I’m sure they’re here,” Daniel insists, although he’s not.

“I miss them,” Liam half-sobs, tucking his arms around his own ribs and sinking down onto a nearby step. “I mean, I have no idea what happened to her. Was she all right after we —?” He sniffs and ducks his head. “Did it take long for him to die after I did?” he adds in a desperately quiet voice.

Daniel sighs and sits next to him, close enough to share body heat. “You went first?” he asks.

Liam nods. “He held my hand,” he breathes.

“Oh, Joly,” Combeferre whispers, his eyes closing and he can see the barricade and the blood. “I’m so sorry.”

“I just want to see him again,” Joly mutters, leaning into Combeferre’s arm a little as though for support. “I need to be sure he’s okay. Both of them. I miss them.”

“I miss them all,” Combeferre admits. Then he turns to Joly and looks him dead in the eye. This time he’s convinced. He’s sure. “We will find them,” he says firmly. They have to.

 

Priya’s house is little, but homey. A tiny bit of country in the middle of the city, covered in live plants and flowers, with light curtains to let the sun shine inside.

But James’ face is dark and troubled as she leads him into her living room. He hasn’t said a word since she took his hand to take him home, and she’s trying to ignore the pain this has caused her, because she knows why.

He’s always been closer to Joly, in all of their lives. She knows he’s always loved her, but he was his Joly, his Patroclus. That means more to him. It always has.

He feels lost without Joly. She feels lost, too.

And then, suddenly, as she’s boiling water for tea, a thought occurs to her.

“Did you watch him die again?” she asks, turning around to look through the kitchen door at him.

He turns his head to her, his eyes heavy with grief, and nods.

And then the tea is forgotten as she comes to sit next to him, so put her hand on his leg. And he doesn’t flinch away this time.

“We were both shot,” he breathes, not looking at her, staring straight ahead of himself, “one right after the other, really. But mine was more superficial. Mine was going to take a while to bleed out. And I wasn’t even a doctor and I knew that. But his. . . .” He swallows. “Well, he had a few seconds. A minute, maybe. And he was something like six or seven meters from me. But I couldn’t walk anymore.” There are tears in his eyes, and in Musichetta’s. He tries to blink them away, but they just fall onto his face. She can’t look away. “So,” he continues, his voice tight, “I dragged myself over to him. Because I didn’t want him to be alone. And I didn’t want to be alone, either. I pulled myself up to him and I reached out and I took his hand. And his face turned toward me and I think he tried to squeeze my hand, but he was too weak. And I think he wanted to smile, but then he was dead. And I wasn’t. And it took me. . .far too long to follow him.”

He stops, and Musichetta suspects it’s because he can’t go on, so she takes the hand on his knee and threads her fingers through his instead, pulling his hand onto her lap and covering it with both of hers.

“That’s how I found you,” she whispers, and he turns to look at her then. “I mean, they’d moved you. Lined you up, all of you. But somehow, you two were still holding hands.”

“You came —?” Bossuet begins and Musichetta nods.

“They asked us to identify you, to claim your bodies. And you and Joly were mine. So I claimed you both.”

Bossuet blinks and looks down. The hardness is gone from his face. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “Did you — Were you all right? Without us?”

Musichetta breathes and her spine straightens as she looks back at Bossuet. “It was hard,” she admits, “but I survived.”


	7. Argo

When the doorknob starts to rattle on Courfeyrac’s front door, he and Jehan have still not thought to let go of each other’s hands. In fact, as the door opens and Combeferre and Joly come inside, Courfeyrac just rolls himself off the bed, tugging Jehan along with him.

“Did you find them?” he asks as Jehan skips along behind him to keep up.

Combeferre shakes his head sadly as Joly goes to sit on the couch in despair. And that’s when Jehan’s hand slips out of Courfeyrac’s again as he goes to sit on the armrest next to Joly and pet his hair. Courfeyrac flexes his fingers and frowns.

“What are we going to do?” he asks Combeferre quietly. Combeferre sighs.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know what we can do.”

“It’ll be okay,” Jehan is murmuring to Joly, who’s buried his face in his hands. “I know it’ll be okay.”

“How can you know that?” Joly groans from behind his fingers.

“Because we found each other,” Jehan says certainly, tucking Joly’s hair away from his face. “That means the others must be out there and we _will_ find them.”

“Jehan, I don’t mean to sound pessimistic,” Combeferre argues, “but I just don’t see how. None of us have any ideas.”

Jehan winces and rubs Joly’s back. And then, suddenly, he jumps up. “Wait, I do have an idea!” he cries and Courfeyrac grins. “Chris, do you have a white board or something?”

 

Enjolras and Grantaire have already crashed into two walls and one end table, but neither can seem to pull themselves away from the other for long enough to look where they’re going. All either can think of is the way their lips fit together like they always have, the way their bodies feel so familiar, so right. Until:

“Should we be doing this?” Enjolras gasps as Grantaire’s fingers pull at the button on his jeans and he shoves Grantaire’s jacket off of his shoulders. “The others —” _gasp_ “— must be out there —” _moan_ “— we should probably find them — _ohh!_ ”

“We can worry about them later,” Grantaire pants, pulling Enjolras in even closer because he wants, he _needs, he must have him_. “Right now —” Enjolras kisses him and he _mmlph_ s into his mouth, “— I just want to love you. Is that all right? Can I just love you? It’s been _so long_.”

Enjolras smiles and brushes his thumb over Grantaire’s cheek. “Yes,” he breathes. “ _Yes_.” And he crushes Grantaire’s mouth with his own again.

Once they finally make it to the bedroom, Enjolras peels away from Grantaire just enough to slip his hands under the hem of Grantaire’s t-shirt, skimming fingers over skin and ribs before lifting it over his his head and pressing searing kisses into his bare shoulder. Grantaire shudders under his touch and then starts on the buttons on Enjolras’ shirt. His hands shake, fingers trembling too much for him to get the buttons undone and Enjolras glances down at this and then looks up at him, leaning forward to gently press their lips together again as he reaches up to thread his fingers through Grantaire’s.

“I want this,” he breathes into their kiss. “I’ve missed this so much. I want you.” Then he pulls Grantaire’s hands up to press a series of loving kisses into his knuckles, his palms, his wrists, and Grantaire gasps.

It’s only a few more seconds before Enjolras’ shirt slips from his shoulders and onto the floor. Then it’s shoes kicked off and jeans peeled away and socks discarded, then underwear slipped off and just skin on skin on skin on skin as fingers make indents into flushed, sweaty flesh and mouths search and find and caress, and it feels so new, and so old, like eternity caught in this: in them, in their touch.

It feels — _finally_ — like home.

 

As it turns out, Chris does _not_ have a white board (because really, what Brooklyn coffee shop employee just _owns a white board?_ ), but he does have a ridiculously large pad — which they prop up against a wall on the kitchen counter — and crayons.

Jehan has already written the names (the French names, anyway) of all of their friends spaced out down one side in different colors he feels correspond to their personalities. Chris is perched on the counter next to this, watching intently while munching on an apple he pulled out of the fridge. Liam, still despairing, has been pulled over and onto a kitchen chair by Daniel, who rests a solid hand on his shoulder as Jehan writes.

“Okay,” Jehan says, pulling away from the l on _Bahorel_ and turning to face the others. “So we may not know anything about the names or faces or life circumstances of our friends here, but we do know what they were like before. And judging from the four of us, nothing big has changed, really, we’re all still the same people we were before, just with different lives, right?”

“That’s a reasonable argument, yes,” Combeferre agrees and Jehan grins at him.

“So we just need to think about them, then,” he says, “and where they’d go if they lived here. Now that they live here. Grantaire, for example. What did he love?”

“Alcohol,” Joly says grumpily.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac snorts.

“What else?” Jehan presses, reaching over to poke Courfeyrac in the knee because he keeps chuckling.

“Classics,” Combeferre says suddenly.

Jehan smiles again. “And art,” he agrees.

“So museums,” Combeferre says, catching on, getting excited. “Art galleries.”

Jehan writes both down next to Grantaire’s name and adds quietly, “It probably wouldn’t hurt to check bars, too. Nothing too trendy, Grantaire would find those pretentious.”

“No, he’d like neighborhood pubs,” Courfeyrac nods, grabbing hold of the idea, too. Catching the hope.

“What about Feuilly?” Combeferre suggests. “He’d like museums and art things, too.”

Jehan nods and adds them next to Feuilly’s name. “But he’s also likely to work a lot, so we should check during weird hours. Right when the museums open in the morning or during the time he’d have an early lunch break. We should also look near the statues in the park, they could both be sketching there.”

“Well we should check the park anyway,” Courfeyrac jumps in, “because Marius.”

Jehan nods and writes it down.

“So Bossuet,” he says when he’s finished, turning to Joly. “Where would he be?”

Joly shrugs. “I mean, probably looking for him in the park is good? He liked the outdoors. He was fond of cooking? He liked going out with friends, so bars, sure. But not clubs, those would overwhelm him. No, those would overwhelm _me_ ,” he corrects suddenly, “Bossuet probably would be fine.” He makes a loud groaning noise like a roar and tips forward to bury his face in his hands again. “He did everything for me, I have no idea what he’d do on his own.”

Courfeyrac slips off the counter before either Combeferre or Jehan can figure out how to respond to that, and crouches in front of Joly, putting both hands comfortingly on his knees. “He loved you a lot, huh?” he says softly and Joly nods, still hidden by his hands. “Then he’s probably looking for you.”

Joly sniffs and rubs the back of one hand under his nose, glaring at Courfeyrac. “What if he doesn’t know?” he challenges. “What if he can’t remember me?”

“Haven’t you been looking for him for a long time?” Courfeyrac asks quietly, almost like he doesn’t want the others to hear. “Even before you realized who you were?”

Joly blinks at him. Combeferre glances up at Jehan, who’s staring down at Courfeyrac.

“Yeah,” Joly finally breathes. “I have.”

Courfeyrac nods. “We’ll find him,” he says. “I promise. Now, what about Musichetta?”

 

Grantaire breathes deeply, inhaling the salty-sweet scent of his love, piled on top of him and sweating and panting, his face tucked next to Grantaire’s face, golden curls spilling all over. Grantaire presses his own face further against Enjolras’ neck and just _breathes_.

He feels lips against his temple again and then Enjolras pushes himself up to gaze down at him, reaching up to stroke his own sweat-soaked hair away from where it’s plastered to his forehead.

“ _Pylades_ ,” he breathes and Grantaire shivers.

They stay like that for a moment, wrapped like ivy around each other’s bodies.

And then, before he can stop himself, Grantaire gasps, “Do you still love me?”

He’d stop the words from shooting from his mouth, but they’re already gone, the damage is done.

Enjolras’ fingers still on his forehead for just a moment and he looks stricken. Until he smiles, those fingers coming down to paint lines over Grantaire’s cheekbone, his jaw, his lips.

“Yes,” he breathes, and the word stops Grantaire’s heart. “I love you.”

“Oh,” Grantaire lets out in a rush of air. “Good.” Then he grins and yanks Enjolras down to taste the sweetness of his mouth again and again and again.


	8. Hypnos

List full, plans made, and chinese takeout consumed, Joly is finally somewhat heartened. They have a plan. That makes a difference.

The idea is that they’ll team up. Most of where they can think to look is in Manhattan, and none of them live in Manhattan, so they decide to go in pairs. Any time two of them aren’t working, they’ll be looking, and they’ll look together because that makes more sense.

The fact that none of them actually really want to be alone now that they’ve found each other has, of course, nothing to do with it.

“So Jehan and I will start in the park tomorrow morning, then,” Combeferre is saying as he picks up his coat and Joly puts his shoes back on. “And you and Joly will swing by the Met at around eleven?”

Courfeyrac nods. “And I don’t work until two tomorrow, so that’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Combeferre says. “We’ll reconnect tomorrow evening over dinner?”

“Perfect.”

Combeferre looks over Courfeyrac’s shoulder at Jehan, who still hasn’t moved to get his shoes.

“Are you coming?” he asks and Courfeyrac turns to him, too.

Jehan wets his lips and shifts his weight, fiddling with the mother-of-pearl snaps on his floral denim shirt. “I live in the Bronx,” he says hesitantly. It’s already late and it’s going to take him a while to get home from Courfeyrac’s apartment in Brooklyn. “I work nearby, but I live up in the Bronx.”

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Courfeyrac asks without hesitation, feeling a small wave of joy when Jehan visibly relaxes. “The couch is comfortable. Or you can use my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“The couch would be great,” Jehan sighs, sounding relieved. “Thank you.”

Courfeyrac grins at him and he smiles back.

Combeferre clears his throat. “Well then,” he says when attention has been drawn back to him, “I guess Joly and I will head out. See you in the morning, Jehan.”

“Bye!” Jehan calls to them both while Courfeyrac waves.

Once they’re gone, Courfeyrac shuts the door and turns around to Jehan, who is now playing nervously with the end of his braid.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac says guiltily, “confession: I really, _really_ didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

The grin that breaks over Jehan’s face looks almost painfully huge. “Me neither,” he admits.

 

Enjolras is starting to fall asleep, and Grantaire is wondering if he should just go. They’ve barely moved since finally sleeping together again, and Enjolras’ arm is heavy around his waist.

Grantaire has no idea if Enjolras even knows what time it is, or if he wants Grantaire out of his apartment now so he can sleep, maybe he just doesn’t know how to say it, so Grantaire begins for him.

“It’s getting late. . . .”

Enjolras grunts in response.

“I’m sure you have work in the morning?” Grantaire continues.

And now Enjolras is shushing him and pulling him closer. “Just go to sleep,” he murmurs, then opens his eyes when he feels Grantaire stiffen. “What?”

“Shouldn’t I go?” Grantaire asks breathily.

Enjolras frowns. “Do you want to?”

“If you want me to,” Grantaire replies.

“No,” Enjolras says firmly. “I don’t want you to. I just _found_ you again, Peter, I don’t want you to go anywhere. Stay.”

“Call me Grantaire?” Peter whispers desperately.

Alexander smiles at him, that same, eternal smile. “Grantaire,” he breathes back. “Please. Stay.”

So Grantaire stays, and rolls onto his side to snake his arms around Enjolras and pull him closer, closer, as close as he can, to nestle skin to skin and heartbeat to heartbeat.

As Enjolras’ breathing slows again and deepens, and Grantaire whispers into the stars of his dreaming, “I love you.”

He doesn’t expect to hear the mumbled reply, but when he does, his whole body warms like sunlight.

“I love you, too.”

 

“Are you going to be okay here?”

Bossuet sighs. No, he’s not. He’s not going to be okay until Joly is here, in his arms, breathing and laughing and kissing him. But he nods and tries to smile. “Thank you, Priya.” He can’t call her Musichetta, not yet. Not without Joly.

Musichetta smiles back, but hers looks forced, too. She’s set up her guest bedroom for him and made him very comfortable, but there was never a two of them without Joly, and this is new and strange and uncomfortable.

They’re trying. But it’s hard.

“My room is just down the hall,” she says, pointing. “If you need anything, come find me. Even if I’m asleep, I don’t mind.”

Bossuet nods. “Thank you,” he says again.

She sighs and nods back. As she’s turning to go and shutting the door behind her, he hears her whisper, “I miss him, too.”

Bossuet tries very hard not to cry.

But he’s never been very lucky.

 

He looks really small.

Éponine managed to get Gavroche fed and settled in before he went to bed, and she thinks that’s an accomplishment until she remembers that she’s solely responsible for this reckless little life for the rest of his existence. And she really hopes that’s going to be a long time.

And now he’s sleeping and he’s curled up in his bed like he’s afraid to take up too much space (and that’s how she sleeps, too, and she knows that fear), and he looks really small.

She wants to go up to him and hold him or stroke his hair and tell him everything’s okay now, everything’s going to be all right. They’re together, and she’s going to protect him.

Not that he’ll let her. But she wants to.

She really, really wants everything to be okay now.

 

Courfeyrac rolls over again. He can’t sleep, he’s been trying for what feels like hours and he just _can’t sleep._ He huffs a little and stares up at his ceiling. Jehan is sleeping less than twenty feet away from him, and yet he feels really alone.

And then:

“I’m still awake, too,” Jehan’s groggy voice sounds from the couch, and then his little head, mussed curls sticking up in all directions like a lion’s mane, appears from over the back of the sofa.

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac whispers, though there’s no one else in the apartment (it’s dark, he feels like he should be quiet), “am I keeping you up?”

“No,” Jehan replies, shaking his head. “But I heard you moving, I figured you couldn’t sleep either.”

Courfeyrac sits up in bed. “Do you feel lonely?” he asks. “Because I feel really terribly lonely and I can’t figure out why.”

Jehan nods. “Me too,” he says. “But I think it’s because of all this. Of figuring out who we are.”

“But we should be happy, right?” Courfeyrac replies. “I mean, we found each other — you, me, Combeferre, Joly — why aren’t we happy?”

“Because Enjolras, Feuilly, Bahorel, Grantaire, Bossuet,” Jehan responds. “Marius, Gavroche. We’re still missing a pretty big chunk of who we are without them.”

Courfeyrac heaves a sigh and falls back into his pillows. “Thanks for staying,” he says.

“Thanks for letting me,” Jehan answers.

Courfeyrac winces. “I still feel really alone.”

“Me too,” Jehan says again, and his voice is so small.

When Courfeyrac props himself up on his elbows to look at his friend again, Jehan is staring down at his own hands or knees or something Courfeyrac can’t see. Carefully, because he has no idea how this is going to be received and he doesn’t want to crush a friendship that he really, really likes, Courfeyrac asks, “Do you want — Would you like to come over here?”

Jehan’s eyes snap up to meet his. “What?”

“I mean you don’t have to,” Courfeyrac says quickly. “But my bed is really big — and I don’t know, it might help if we’re closer? It helped when we were napping. But only if you want to!”

Slowly, Jehan’s face breaks into a smile again. He practically scrambles off of the couch and then shuffles across the hardwood floor as Courfeyrac scoots over to one side to give him room to climb in under the covers.

Still grinning at each other, they settle into the sheets, rolling on their sides so they can face each other in their sleep. So that they only need to open their eyes to see that the other is still there.

And if their hands find each other again under the quilt and thread together, well, neither is going to mention it.

Especially since they fall asleep so quickly.


	9. Parados

When Courfeyrac’s eyes peel open the next morning, they immediately fix upon the boy still asleep in his bed.

Jehan’s mouth is hanging open in sleep, his golden curls falling like curtains over his face. Somehow, in the night, the two of them shifted positions until Courfeyrac’s arm was under Jehan’s head and Jehan’s fingers were curled over Courfeyrac’s hip.

It’s kind of nice, really.

But it does make it a little difficult to move without waking the other man up, Courfeyrac realizes, trying to shift enough so he can see his clock but not enough to shake the warm hand from his hip.

Oh, _shit_.

Courfeyrac turns back to Jehan and lifts his other hand to gently brush the hair out of his face as he whispers, “Jehan?”

“Mmm?” Jehan hums, keeping his eyes closed and turning his face even more into Courfeyrac’s elbow (which is _absolutely adorable_ and brings a pleasant, hot sensation into Courfeyrac’s stomach).

“It’s time to wake up,” Courfeyrac continues, wishing he didn’t have to, “you have to meet Combeferre in like twenty minutes.”

At that, Jehan starts awake, lifting his head and opening his eyes. “What?!”

He scrambles out of bed, not even taking a moment to realize how gently he was cradling Courfeyrac’s hip, and starts searching for his jeans (he’s wearing a pair of Courfeyrac’s pajama pants) and his shoes, chattering frantically about nothing.

“. . .and oh my god, my hair is a mess,” he sputters, hands flying up to his curls to try to hold them away from his face as he bends to look for his shoes under the table, “where’s my ribbon? I —”

Courfeyrac shuts him up by calling his name affectionately. “Come here,” he laughs, reaching out a hand. “Calm down. I’ll braid it for you.”

Jehan stops and blinks at him. “You know how to braid hair?” he asks, something inscrutable in his expression.

“I have three little sisters, Jehan,” Courfeyrac answers, “of course I know how to braid hair.”

Jehan only hesitates for a second before he crosses the room, climbing back into the bed and sitting with his back to Courfeyrac, who immediately starts combing his fingers gently through Jehan’s hair to work out the tangles of sleep. His touch his expert and gentle and awfully nice, and Jehan catches himself right before his mind starts to wonder how that touch would feel on his neck, his arms, the skin of his chest, his hips, his legs. . . .

Courfeyrac starts humming absently behind him, picking out a tune as he sections Jehan’s hair into three parts and begins to plait it. He likes braiding hair, actually, and Jehan’s is really ridiculously lovely. Gilt and soft. It catches the light so prettily as it slips between Courfeyrac’s fingers. The back of Jehan’s neck is revealed as he works, soft and pale and elegant. Suddenly, all Courfeyrac wants is to find with his mouth the place where Jehan’s neck curves into his shoulder.

His heart flutters.

_Shit_.

 

“Are you all right?”

Combeferre looks very concerned as Jehan dashes up to where he’s been waiting outside the subway station, pink from the chill morning air and panting.

“I overslept!” he gasps, and turns even pinker for some reason. “I’m so sorry!”

Combeferre grins. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, “you’re only fifteen minutes late, you’re fine.”

“You were waiting!” Jehan protests.

“I don’t mind,” Combeferre shrugs, then jerks his head in the direction of the park. “Come on.”

Jehan has to skip every now and then to keep up with Combeferre’s long strides, but he doesn’t mind. He remembers this.

“Did you sleep all right at Courfeyrac’s?” Combeferre asks him as they enter the park and set off down one of the paths (their goal is the Alice in Wonderland statue, they figure it’s as good as place to start as any).

“I did, actually,” Jehan answers, smiling a little despite himself. He’s probably pink. He wonders if he can blame that on the chillness of the air. “Did you sleep well?”

Combeferre makes a face. “Not really,” he admits. “It was very strange. I felt. . .inexplicably very lonely.”

“Courfeyrac and I were talking about that, too!” Jehan agrees enthusiastically. He very nearly adds that they ended up sleeping in bed together, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to offer up that particular bit of information. “It’s hard being without everyone,” he says instead.

Combeferre nods thoughtfully. When Jehan reaches out and squeezes his hand, he doesn’t pull away.

 

The restaurant Joly picks for their regrouping dinner is some generic pizza place on the East Side. They order two pizzas between the four of them and practically inhale them both. Courfeyrac keeps laying his head on the table, claiming exhaustion from work and searching the Met with Joly earlier, but Jehan and Combeferre, who both worked full days after searching the park, and Joly, who is a med student, seem fine. Jehan is continuously touching _someone_ , whether it’s a hand on Joly’s wrist or nudging Combeferre under the table with his toes. He barely even notices when he tucks himself up under Courfeyrac’s arm in the booth they’re sharing. Courfeyrac’s fingers start to trail over his arm as he speaks. That, Jehan notices.

“It felt slightly creepy,” Joly is saying while this happens. “Just staring at people like that.”

“I mean we were in a museum,” Courfeyrac says. “Staring isn’t exactly unusual there.”

“Staring at _art,_ Courfeyrac!” Joly protests, but he’s smiling. He’s started smiling again, and his friends have noticed. He has hope.

Courfeyrac grins back. He hasn’t realized that his own hand has slipped into Jehan’s hair until Jehan pulls away and it isn’t anymore.

“Well, we’ll try again tomorrow,” Combeferre says calmly. “It felt pretty weird to me too, but I think we have to assume that when we see them, we’ll recognize them.”

“It worked with the four of us,” Jehan points out.

“Yeah, but do we need eye contact?” Courfeyrac asks, frowning. “Because I’d been watching you two for _days_ before I knew who you were. It wasn’t until you and I looked at each other,” he adds to Combeferre.

“For me, it was when I heard your name,” Jehan says.

Combeferre nods. “But I saw Joly and it was the back of your head and I knew.”

Joly smiles a little again. “So not always,” he says.

“But sometimes,” Courfeyrac agrees.

“Maybe we should go around saying everyone’s names,” Jehan suggests, smiling because he’s half-joking.

Courfeyrac bites his lip. “And we’re definitely not the only ones, right? The others are here.”

“Enjolras is,” Combeferre says so quickly the others all look at him, startled. He almost blushes. “I can just — feel it,” he says meekly.

Jehan nods. “Good,” he says simply. Courfeyrac grins at him.

Joly sighs. “I don’t want to go home,” he groans. “My apartment is so empty and all I can think is ‘They’re not here, they’re not here,’ and I hate it.”

“I’m not a big fan of being alone either,” Combeferre admits.

“We should all just stay together,” Courfeyrac says like it’s simple. “My apartment is tiny, but I’m sure we can make room, I don’t mind.”

“I’d offer mine,” Jehan adds, “but it’s no bigger and it’s in the Bronx.” He shrugs.

“Well,” Combeferre says slowly, “my apartment is actually a pretty decent size. The four of us could fit, at least. It’s not as near Manhattan as Courfeyrac’s, but it’s open for you all if you want.”

The other three just sort of stare at him like they’re caught in a storm and he has shelter.

“I think that would be a relief,” Joly says finally.

Combeferre smiles. Courfeyrac’s hand finds Jehan’s under the table.

 

It takes a couple of hours to get everything settled because three people have to go home to pack whatever they’ll need for the next few days. . .or weeks. . .or however long it takes to stop feeling this oppressive loneliness, and then get to Brooklyn and Combeferre’s apartment. But when they’re there, all four of them in the same space, it is indeed a relief.

“All right, well I have one air mattress,” Combeferre says when they’ve all settled in a bit, “and the couch pulls out into a bed. There’s also my bed if only one of you are okay with sharing, I don’t mind at all. Two of us will have to share, though.”

“I have no problem sharing,” Courfeyrac says right away.

“Yeah, that’s fine with me,” Jehan agrees.

Combeferre nods. “That’s easy, then,” he says.

“I’m fine with the air mattress,” Joly says, smiling.

They end up setting up the air mattress in Combeferre’s room so Combeferre doesn’t have to be alone, and Courfeyrac delightedly chatters about how it’s ‘just like a slumber party!’ until Combeferre makes him go get ready for bed.

Jehan’s heart thumps rather conspicuously as Courfeyrac climbs into the other side of the pull-out bed. Courfeyrac settles in, making the bed move around him as he does. There’s a kind of warmth coming off of him that feels really nice and lovely and _alive_ and Jehan wants to be nearer to it. So he shifts a little too, so he’s closer. Courfeyrac notices and tries not to grin.

He wonders, for a moment, if it would be alright to move his arm until it’s resting against Jehan’s. He decides to find out, and the pit of his stomach feels warm when the back of Jehan’s hand presses up to his in response. This makes him brave enough to reach out with the other hand and brush a lock of hair out of Jehan’s face. Jehan’s fingers twine through his.

By the time they fall asleep, they’re nestled against each other’s sides, just short of wrapped around each other, and Courfeyrac’s hand is resting against Jehan’s neck. Jehan’s has settled on Courfeyrac’s hip again.

And it’s fine, because they’re friends and they’ve found each other, and they’re lonely. It’s fine that they keep scooting closer until they can’t anymore, that Jehan nuzzles his face into Courfeyrac’s shoulder, that all Courfeyrac wants to do is wrap both arms around Jehan and hold him. They’re friends.

It’s all fine.


	10. Delphi

He’d grown accustomed to waking up with Orestes’ nose buried in his hair. It was just how they slept, against each other, around each other, inhabiting each other.

He’s never once thought he’d ever have that with Enjolras. He’d wanted it more than his very life, but he always knew he’d never have it.

He wakes up, on the first morning he really knows who he is, with Alexander’s nose buried in his hair.

He really doesn’t think he should be blamed for bursting into tears again.

Alexander is pressed so close to him that he’s roused by the shaking of Peter’s shoulders.

“What is it?” he asks when he sees that he’s crying. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire gasps. “I’m just — you’re here, you’re still here.”

“Of course I’m still here,” Alexander says groggily, frowning. “This is my apartment. Do you think I would have gotten up and left you in the middle of the night?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. He’d almost forgotten how annoyingly pragmatic his golden boy has always been. Brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he sighs. “I mean you’re here,” he says again like that explains it. “I’m here. I found you.”

Alexander blinks, but then a small smile presses at the corners of his mouth. “I missed you,” he whispers once again.

“Did you?” Grantaire asks, meaning it in jest, but secretly he really doesn’t know.

Enjolras’ nose presses into his hair again and he shudders. “My Pylades,” he breathes into his ear. “I cannot even begin to tell you how much.”

Grantaire closes his eyes and lets this wash over him. His hands grip at Enjolras’ skin as he breathes.

Finally, Enjolras pulls away and starts to climb out of bed. Grantaire grasps after him. “Wait, come back,” he whines.

“I’m going to brush my teeth,” Enjolras tells him as he gingerly picks a pair of boxers up off the floor and slips them on. Grantaire actually whimpers when he realizes the boxers are actually his. “You can come if you want.”

That’s enough invitation for Grantaire, who figures it’s only fair that he pull on Enjolras’ boxers since Enjolras is wearing his — and they’re oh so soft and just a little bit tight — before he follows him into the little bathroom off of the bedroom where Enjolras is starting to brush his teeth, bathed in sunlight from the window, which lights his hair aflame.

Grantaire comes up right behind him, slipping his arms around his waist and Enjolras hums around his toothbrush and leans back into Grantaire’s body. Grantaire presses kisses into Enjolras’ face as he brushes and smiles when Enjolras’ eyes close peacefully.

“Did I ever tell you how fucking gorgeous you look in the morning light?” Grantaire asks as Enjolras leans forward to spit into the sink.

“You used to in Greece,” Enjolras replies, smirking a little at him in the mirror.

“Well, I didn’t think it would be appropriate in France,” Grantaire huffs. “You didn’t love me then.”

Enjolras sighs. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.

“Why? It’s not like you owed me anything, I was a shithead to you.”

“I didn’t treat you very well —”

“Which you’ve already apologized for,” Grantaire points out. “Several times.”

Enjolras shakes his head, leaning further back into Grantaire’s arms. “If I’d known who you were —”

“Which you didn’t,” Grantaire argues. “And you can’t know anyway how you’d — Shit, Enjolras, you have to let this go. France was hard. Greece wasn’t a cakewalk either. We’re here now, and we’re together. And I love you.”

“And I love you,” Enjolras impresses firmly, staring insistently at Grantaire’s reflection.

Grantaire nods. “Good,” he says. “Then that’s what matters, right? That’s all.”

Slowly, Enjolras turns in his arms until they’re nose to nose. He leans forward to press a sweet kiss to Grantaire’s lips (Grantaire’s heart flutters and he wonders if it’s possible for him to simply melt away), and then when he pulls away, one hand resting lightly on Grantaire’s chest, he breathes, “I have today off work. I think we should try to find the others.”

Grantaire makes a face.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The hand on his chest lifts to cradle his face instead. “Tell me.”

He doesn’t particularly want to. Because he loves this so much, standing here with minimal clothes and his forever love caught between his arms, kissing him and touching him with such care and tenderness. And his cynicism has always been a problem between them. But blue eyes are piercing into his, bidding him answer.

“What if they’re not here?” he asks finally. “What if it’s just us?”

Enjolras frowns. “Why would it just be us?”

“Because I don’t remember any of them in Greece,” Grantaire says bluntly. “And you and me — we found each other, okay? We’ve found each other every time and we only had them last time. And I don’t know, I just feel like it’s asking rather a lot from chance to assume that we’ll find not only each other but everyone else too, especially if they’re not even here.”

The frown on Enjolras’ face deepens and his eyes cloud over. “You think this is chance?” he asks in a low voice.

“Well, what the fuck else would it be?” Grantaire asks.

At that, Enjolras steps out of his arms and walks away.

 

Grantaire doesn’t follow him until after he’s brushed his teeth and showered. He figures if Enjolras doesn’t want to see him — if he’s going to fucking walk away and refuse to talk to him — well, he shouldn’t have to. And Grantaire is used to being fucking irritating with his cynicism, so this should really feel no different. It shouldn’t make him want to bang his head against the wall.

Enjolras is sitting out at the kitchen table, still wearing Grantaire’s underwear, sulking. It’s not just that Grantaire is doubtful that the others are out there — it’s that he’s _so stubbornly and intentionally cynical about it_ when Enjolras just _knows_ they’re here. They have to be.

So he’s sulking as he listens to the shower water run (totally _not_ secretly wishing he were in there with the man he loved and loves despite his hugely annoying pessimism and has finally found again), and will continue to do so.

That is, until the water shuts off and Grantaire emerges from the bedroom, water dripping down the lines of his chest and a towel wrapped around his waist.

And Enjolras just sort of gapes at him because —

Well, that’s —

That’s just _unfair_.

“Can I help you?” he asks coldly because old habits die hard and no way is he going to reveal to Grantaire that he really just wants to rip that towel off his hips, back him straight into bed, and lick all the water off every inch of his body — _especially_ not when Grantaire is being so frustrating.

“If I’m heading out, you need to give me back my underwear,” Grantaire returns bluntly.

Enjolras blinks. Wait, what? “Wh-why are you heading out?” he asks, trying not to sound panicked.

Grantaire huffs and looks annoyed. “Well do you want me or not, Orestes?” he demands. “Make up your mind.”

“I — I want you,” Enjolras responds immediately, but he sounds uncertain.

Grantaire cocks an eyebrow at him (and his hip, which is _really unfair_ ).

“I want you,” Enjolras repeats, sounding more sure this time. “I want you to stay. I want you to stop being so negative all the time — but,” he adds quickly as Grantaire glowers at him and crosses his arms, “then you wouldn’t really be you, would you? So maybe I don’t want that, really. I want you.”

Grantaire continues to stand there for a minute, dripping curls and scowling face, until his expression relaxes a little. “Okay,” he sighs. “But you’re still going to have to give me back my underwear if we’re gonna go people hunting.”

Enjolras blinks again and starts to stand up. “You’re coming?”

Grantaire actually laughs at that. “Of course I’m coming,” he says. “Don’t I always?”

He turns to go back into the bedroom, but stops as Enjolras suddenly crosses to him, weighing one hand on his waist.

He peers at Grantaire as though searching his face for something. “You still don’t believe they’re out there,” It’s not a question.

Grantaire shrugs, snaking his arms around Enjolras and holding him there. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I believe in you.”

“I seem to recall you saying that before,” Enjolras remarks with a wry smile.

Grantaire leans forward to lightly kiss Enjolras’ cheekbone. “I’ve always believed in you,” he breathes. “I always will.”

Enjolras hums happily. “You’re not getting your underwear back,” he murmurs, then presses his lips to Grantaire’s.

“Well then what am I supposed to wear?” Grantaire protests.

“Mine,” Enjolras responds, grinning.

Grantaire makes a kind of whining noise and goes a little limp in Enjolras’ hold, then darts forward to start kissing his neck and shoulder.

“I think I probably have a t-shirt you can borrow, too,” Enjolras says.

“I’m a little broader than you, Orestes,” Grantaire chuckles against his skin. “It might be kind of tight on me.”

Enjolras’ smile is catlike. “That’s fine with me.”

 

‘Kind of tight’ ends up being a bit of an understatement (Enjolras’ build is leaner than Grantaire’s and he already wears his t-shirts fitted anyway), but the look on Enjolras’ face when Grantaire pulls the dark blue v-neck over his head, and the way he licks his lips as he stares at him makes Grantaire more than wiling to keep wearing the garment. He’s also wearing Enjolras’ underwear, and every time he remembers this they feel a little too tight too. When he remembers that Enjolras is also sill wearing _his_ , it makes him want to sieze the boy around his golden waist and topple into bed with him, ripping off every item of clothing until they’re skin on skin again and panting and undone.

But he never gets the chance because too soon, Enjolras is pulling his jacket over his shoulders (and nipping at his earlobe as he does), and then lacing their fingers together and pulling him out the door.

“So is this the plan then?” Grantaire is asking after they’ve taken two trains and walked four blocks, still hand in hand (they’ve barely let go of each other since leaving the apartment). “We wander around different parts of the city until we find someone?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he releases Grantaire’s fingers to instead wrap his arm all the way around his waist. His other hand is deep in his jacket pocket. “Why do you think I was in the museum yesterday?” he asks as Grantaire stretches over to kiss his neck.

“Um, you like art?” Grantaire ventures. “You wanted to look at pretty paintings? The girl who works at the ticket office is hot?”

“Grantaire.”

“What? She is. I mean not as hot as _you_ , but —”

“I went,” Enjolras interrupts, turning to look at Grantaire as they stop for a red light, “because I knew you’d be there.”

Grantaire frowns and blinks in surprise. “You — you what?”

“I mean, not in so many words,” Enjolras clarifies, having to yank Grantaire forward a little as they start walking again. “I just had this feeling. I knew I was supposed to be there. And that’s where you saw me.”

“I go there every week,” Grantaire breathes a little weakly. “Every Sunday.”

Enjolras nods. “I just knew I needed to be there, so I went. I felt similarly about this area. Which means someone must be here. Come on, there’s a nice coffee shop down the street, you want coffee?”

“Gods, yes,” Grantaire sighs, then rests his head briefly on Enjolras’ shoulder.

Enjolras smiles and lays a kiss in his hair.

When they walk into the coffee shop, Grantaire stops short.

“What do you want?” Enjolras asks over his shoulder, then stops when he sees Grantaire. “What?”

“Why do you like this place?” Grantaire asks him.

Enjolras frowns in confusion. “They have really good coffee,” he says slowly. “And it’s independent, and I like that. The owners are nice. . .what?”

Grantaire is smirking at him. “It looks _exactly_ like the Musain?”

Enjolras glances around. “It does not,” he protests.

“It’s ridiculously smiliar,” Grantaire laughs. “Is there a back room?”

Enjolras purses his lips. “I think there might be,” he admits quietly and Grantaire cackles. “What do you want?”

Grantaire takes the two steps to be flush against Enjolras again and growls so quietly even he can barely hear, “I want your mouth on me.”

And Enjolras smiles, but whispers back, “To drink, I mean.”

Grantaire pouts. Until Enjolras breathes, “Later,” into his mouth and then chastely kisses him.

“Just coffee,” Grantaire finally answers. “Or whatever you’re having, I don’t care.”

Enjolras makes easy conversation with the barista as he orders, and it’s clear he’s come here before. When the barista makes a comment about the guy here with him (who’s lingering near the coffee beans), Enjolras actually blushes and smiles and glances down.

“He’s been away for a while,” is what he says in response. “It’s really good to have him back.”


	11. Psyche

It’s lunchtime when Priya knocks on the door of her guest bedroom. She wanted to give James whatever time he needed to sleep but now it’s midday and she’s getting kind of worried. He answers her knock and tells her to come in, so she pushes the door open.

He’s sitting at the little fold-up desk she has in here, writing furiously, and there are stacks of papers all around him.

“Can I get you something to eat?” she asks softly, resting her hand on the desk next to him.

“I’m not hungry, thank you,” he answers, continuing to write.

Musichetta sighs. She wants to run her hand comfortingly over his head, rub his tense shoulders until he feels better, but it would not help, and she knows it.

“What are you writing?” she asks instead.

He doesn’t look up at her before he says softly, “Letters. To Joly. I’m going to give them to him if — when we find him.”

Tears prickle suddenly at the corners of her eyes, but there’s warmth in her heart. “May I read them?”

Bossuet nods and gestures at the stack.

She picks up the top letter and scans it. Then she picks up another.

They’re love letters, all of them, filled with outpourings of tenderness.

_My darling, when I see you once again, I’ll kiss and kiss and kiss you and never ever stop. . . ._

_You heart is so precious to me I feel like I can still feel it in my heart. My love, my joy, you are all I could ever want. . . ._

_I miss you so desperately; my skin aches for yours, my mouth longs to taste you. . . ._

“Are all of them like this?” Musichetta asks, looking up from the fourth page she’s read. “They’re beautiful.”

“All so far, yes,” Bossuet answers. “I’m just writing whatever’s in my head, and this is all I can think about. Don’t you have work?” he asks suddenly.

“I took the day off,” Musichetta mumbles, glancing through another letter dripping with words so lovely they make her heart ache. “Do you?”

“I didn’t go,” Bossuet shrugs.

She wants to lean in and kiss him, to tell him everything will be all right, that Joly will be with them again soon.

But she can’t, because she doesn’t know. And he’s not ready for her. Not yet.

 

Combeferre is grateful for his friends.

He’s grateful that when he woke up this morning, Joly was curled up in a ball on the air mattress, almost sucking his thumb, but looking more peaceful than Combeferre has seen him yet. He’s grateful for Jehan and Courfeyrac who were not quite in each other’s arms on the pull-out bed but probably wanted to be, and who looked ridiculously happy just to be near each other, near the rest of them. He’s really, incredibly grateful.

But there’s a constant ache deep in his chest, and he knows it’s because Enjolras isn’t here.

It’s not that he doesn’t adore the friends he has with him, and he is so thankful to have them near, but his relationship with Enjolras was something more, and he can’t even describe it to anyone, so he doesn’t try. All he knows is that he feels like less without Enjolras.

Courfeyrac is the first one to get home after work, partly because he had a morning shift at the coffee house and partly because his house and workplace aren’t far from where Combeferre lives, so he’s sitting in the living room when Combeferre gets home, holding up the spare key he was trusted with this morning as he leafs through one of Combeferre’s books.

Nabbing the key as he walks by, Combeferre calls out, “Are you hungry?”

“Starved!” Courfeyrac groans back. “When are the others back?”

“Joly said to eat without him because he’s got a long shift at the hospital, I guess,” Combeferre answers, opening this refrigerator. “Jehan will be back in about an hour.”

“He works long days,” Courfeyrac remarks, bookmarking his page and tossing the book on the coffee table.

Combeferre finds a block of cheese and pulls it out of the fridge. “I think he’s working more hours today in exchange for taking part of the morning off yesterday.”

“But he’ll be back soon?”

Combeferre glances up from cheese cutting and can’t help but wonder if Courfeyrac’s eagerness isn’t entirely based on hunger. Courfeyrac smiles innocently.

They spend a few minutes in comfortable quiet as Courfeyrac watches Combeferre slice cheese, then, when Combeferre comes around and sits on the couch next to Courfeyrac, placing the plate between them so they can share, Courfeyrac pipes up again.

“Where’s Enjolras?”

Combeferre smiles. “You miss him too.”

Courfeyrac nods. “A lot. I can only imagine how you must feel.”

Combeferre shrugs.

“But I don’t have an Enjolras-sense,” Courfeyrac adds. “So where is he?”

“I don’t know _where_ he is,” Combeferre says, smiling more as Courfeyrac sticks another slice of cheese in his mouth. “I just know that he’s here somewhere.”

“It would be easier if you knew _where_ he was,” Courfeyrac comments, mouth full.

Combeferre chuckles. “Yes,” he agrees, “it would.”

 

By dinner time, Musichetta is starting to wonder if Bossuet will ever come out of his room and eat something. She’s contemplating trying to bring him some food and just hope that he eats it, when he appears in the kitchen doorway, looking a bit contrite.

Priya steps away from the stove where she’s been cooking and looks at him attentively.

He takes a deep breath.

“This is really hard for me,” is what he says.

“I know,” Musichetta assures him. “For me, too.”

Bossuet winces. “I’m sorry if I’m being a jerk —”

“You’re not!” she says quickly. “I understand.”

“I just miss him,” Bossuet says softly, “ _so_ much. And I look at you, and all I see is him.”

Musichetta nods. “I know,” she says again.

Bossuet shifts from foot to foot and wets his lips. “Do you really think we’ll find him?”

“I really hope so,” Musichetta says.

This dinner is the first meal Bossuet has eaten since they found each other.


	12. Eleusinian

He doesn’t know who he is. He never has. 

He figures, just by looking in the mirror, that his heritage must come at least partly from Eastern Asia, but adopted as an infant and orphaned as a kid, and then passed around the foster care system for the rest of his adolescence as one of the Kids No One Really Wants, he’s never actually known where he came from or who he is.

Whoever he is, once he was spat out of the custody of The State, he was left pretty much alone and essentially penniless. He stayed in the city solely because he found work there, but between waking up at 4am to work his fingers to the bone at the printing press and staying hanging flies at a nonunion theatre in Brooklyn until midnight, he doesn’t get much sleep, and he doesn’t have many friends, so coffee is his lifeblood. It costs so much to pay rent in Queens and he can’t always afford food, but he always has coffee. He needs it.

He doesn’t often get breaks between things, but every now and then his job at the theatre starts an hour or two later than usual and he gets a little time to himself. It doesn’t occur to him that he could go home and use that hour or two to sleep, not in the middle of the day when his tired nerves are on fire like this.

He’s lived in this city almost his entire life, but there are still places inside the city limits he’s never seen, never explored. And he loves to learn, especially about things he loves. Despite everything, he loves this city. So on the rare occasion that he gets breaks like this, he gets on a train — any train — or a bus, and just rides for a while, he doesn’t get off until a stop he knows he’s unfamiliar with. And then he wanders.

If he’s going to live a life without a proper home, he might as well get the benefits of the nomadic lifestyle while he’s at it.

Today he stays in Brooklyn, because he really only has an hour to kill, and finds himself on the Western side where he could probably see the Manhattan skyline if he was high enough in the air. He just wanders for a while, the way he likes to, until the smell of coffee draws him into a little hole-in-the-wall café down the street.

The thing is, he hasn’t worked as many hours this week as usual due to the lightning storm that blacked out the theatre for a whole night earlier in the week, and the little money he has, a wise man would save for food.

He would like to consider himself a wise man.

But he also knows he is a man addicted to caffeine.

And he hasn’t had his fix since four o’clock this morning when he rolled out of bed.

So he hands over his money.

It’s a really nice place, he muses as he waits for his coffee to brew. Small, but homey, and deeper than it is wide. The baristas are nice, too, which is a plus. He’ll never understand why people feel the need to be awful to each other. Life is hard enough, why make it harder?

The only other people in here are a couple in the corner who are punctuating tender kisses with rather antagonistic teasings, so they’re not paying him any attention, and he doesn’t like to stare, so he keeps his gaze on the café instead of on them.

His coffee is ready pretty quickly, which is also nice, and they even spell his name right. Not that “Brian” is easy to botch, but Starbucks baristas seem to be trained in Weird Spellings Of Easy Names, and he’s gotten some bizarre variations. He makes a mental note to come back here someday when he has a little money or a little time (and then he laughs at himself because _when_ will he ever have _either_ of those?), and heads out to find somewhere more populated, because he likes to be where the people are.

He seems to have found one of those rare, quiet pockets of town, though, and the only person out is a guy on the other side of the street.

The guy is _huge_ , which is why he catches Brian’s attention. He’s got long locs pulled away from his face and tied back, and his skin is a kind of medium brown. His features are _fascinating_ , with large eyes and a slightly hooked, somewhat broken nose, and if Brian had any time for that sort of thing anymore he’d want nothing more than to draw the shit out of this guy because he’s a kind of uniquely handsome you don’t expect to see even in a city like this.

This guy looks up just as Brian is deciding that he’s coming to the end of the appropriately not-creepy length of time to look at a stranger, and their eyes meet.

Brian looks away immediately, but there’s this weird thing that happens in the split second when they see each other. And Brian doesn’t give a shit about labels but he’s never been into guys, and it’s not sexual anyway, but there’s this. . .connection there and Brian doesn’t get it at _all_.

All he knows, really, is that he’s got this overwhelming urge to have this guy in his life somehow.

But his shift is about to start, and he’s got to catch his train.


	13. Orphic Hymns

It’s been a week.

One whole week of sharing an apartment. Of sharing a bed. And Courfeyrac is well aware that they’ve been testing all week, trying to to find out how close is too close when it’s never close enough. He’ll bend a knee until it bumps up again Jehan, and Jehan will respond by turning his shoulders until one is brushing Courfeyrac’s arm. But it’s tentative and indirect and Courfeyrac is fed up with it.

So, a week into this living arrangement that they all agreed just this evening over dinner has been working quite well, when Jehan slips under the sheets and starts to settle into bed, Courfeyrac just reaches out and tugs lightly on his sleeve.

It’s meant to be an invitation, but Courfeyrac doesn’t really believe Jehan will read it as one, except that his friend is rolling over and slipping himself right between Courfeyrac’s arms, nestling himself against his body, and now they are _properly_ snuggling, and _this_ is what Courfeyrac has been wanting all week. Jehan’s hair smells like all kinds of delicious flowers and Courfeyrac doesn’t mean to, but he hums happily into that hair as he tightens his arms around thin shoulders.

Shifting a little, Jehan raises his face to look up at Courfeyrac at the sound of that hum. And they’re _so close_ like this, they’re sharing air, and Jehan’s lips are pink and Courfeyrac’s eyes are green, and somebody’s mouth opens a little, and somebody’s eyes drop down to somebody’s lips....

They’re springing apart like startled rabbits when the door to Combeferre’s bedroom opens, and both are perched far on either side of the bed, rolled over on their sides so they’re not facing each other, when Joly shuffles across the hallway to the bathroom.

But even with all that air between with, neither can manage to stop thinking about how the other must taste in the dark quiet of night.

 

When Joly comes back from the bathroom, Combeferre is stretched out on his bed, reading. He likes to read before he sleeps, he finds it soothing. And Joly knows this by now, because they’ve been sharing a room for a week, and he really don’t want to interrupt — but....

“Hey, Combeferre?”

Immediately, the book is lowered and Combeferre is looking up at him attentively. “Yeah?”

“Do you still know medical stuff?” Joly asks carefully.

A slow smile spreads across Combeferre’s face and he sits up. “Before I started my company, I went to nursing school,” he admits, shifting so Joly can come sit on the bed next to him. “What’s up?”

Joly sits down and sighs. “I’ve got this bump in my earlobe, I think it might be cancerous.”

Combeferre only takes a moment to stifle his laugh, because Joly really _hasn’t_ changed at all, and that is delightful. He loves that his friends are here with him again, he loves that they’re all the same as they were. And as such, Joly looks genuinely worried, so he reaches up to feel the bump in his friend’s earlobe before he answers.

“It’s a cyst, Liam,” he says calmly. “Nothing to worry about. I’d think you would know that? You’re in med school.”

Joly sighs again and reaches up to touch his own ear again. “I do,” he confesses. “I mean, that would be a decent assumption. But are you sure it’s not a tumor?”

Combeferre nods. “It feels like a cyst. I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

“Okay,” Joly nods, though he only sounds half convinced. “Thanks. Why are you smiling?”

“Sorry.” Combeferre hadn’t even noticed he was grinning at the hypochondriac. “I’m just rather fond of the idea that none of us have fundamentally changed since the last time we knew each other.”

Joly blinks, but then he smiles too. “That is nice, isn’t it?” he says.

“Do you remember,” Combeferre suddenly asks fondly, “when you suddenly started philosophizing about cats on the barricade?”

“I’d seen one!” Joly cries in his own defense, but he’s laughing. “I was making a point. Courfeyrac had just made a metaphor about a torch! And you were —“

He cuts off and both of them look at each other, suddenly somber.

“I was talking about the dead,” Combeferre says quietly. “We’d already lost Bahorel and Jehan.”

Joly shivers. “I’m so glad we have Jehan with us. It was terrible hearing him die.” He pauses. “It’ll be good to see Bahorel again, too.”

Combeferre nods. “It’ll be nice to see everyone again.”

They’re quiet again for another minute before Joly asks carefully, “Do you know how Enjolras died?”

Combeferre’s eyes flick up to meet his. “No,” he says. “He was still fighting when I fell.”

They get back in the respective beds to go to sleep not long after that. And it’s strange, but this helps. Talking about it. . .it helps.

 

Courfeyrac is in deep shit and he knows it. He’s been at work for hours now, and every time he even thinks about the look Jehan gave him last night when they were way too close and _way_ too wanting, he feels like he needs a cold, abrupt shower just to hold it all together.

And fuck it all, this _doesn’t happen to him_ , this desperate, aching, _longing_ feeling, especially not about his _friend_ who he’s liked so much since forever and this could ruin everything, this feeling in his soul when those gorgeous blue eyes catch his, like all the stars in the universe are trapped in that glance — this could ruin _everything_.

None of this is helped by the fact that he’s supposed to be going out searching with Jehan after his shift.

They probably shouldn’t have started sharing a bed, that was a stupid idea really. But Courfeyrac had been pretty sure that the fluttery, happy, grinning feelings he got around his friend were. . .well, _friendly_. That he was just really glad to see him or something. But now he’s pretty sure he wants to explore every square inch of pale, freckled skin with his mouth and memorize the taste of each slope and curve and line of his body, and _that_ is not very platonic — even for Courfeyrac.

Also not helpful: Jehan shows up twenty minutes early and comes to bounce onto a stool by the counter right near where Courfeyrac is working.

“You’re early!” Courfeyrac cries unnecessarily, still finding himself unable to be anything but absurdly delighted at the sight of him.

Jehan smiles, and maybe he goes a little pink, but it’s hard to tell because his face is already flushed from the chill, blustering wind outside. “Yeah,” he huffs, still a little breathless from his walk (how fast was he walking?), “I’m tired of being late to everything, so I’m making up for it by being early to everything.”

Courfeyrac really shouldn’t be grinning this wide at something that simple (but _oh my god how adorable_ ), and tries to hide it by fiddling with the espresso machine. “Do you want some coffee?” he asks over his shoulder. “Or tea? We’re clearly not very busy right now and it’ll be on the house.”

“Oh, I can pay!” Jehan says quickly, reaching into his pocket, presumably for his wallet.

“Nope, unacceptable,” Courfeyrac rebuts before he can get there. “When you die in the fight for liberty you earn the right to stop paying for tea. At least when I’m working. So chai, earl grey, or green?”

When he glances back, Jehan is grinning fondly at him (and his heart skips a beat). “Earl grey,” Jehan answers softly. “Thank you.”

Between leaning a little too far over the counter to hand Jehan his finished tea and then staying there to chat comfortably about nothing and everything with the little poet, the only reason Courfeyrac remembers his shift is ending at all and he can leave is because someone comes in to order six cappuccinos to-go five minutes before said shift ends.

As Courfeyrac finishes making the last of the cappuccinos, Jehan slips his coat back over his shoulders and hops off the stool, waiting patiently as Courfeyrac goes in the back to hang up his apron and clock out and pass the metaphorical coffee torch to Tina, who’s just arrived. When he comes back out, Jehan smiles at him again (and he _really_ needs to stop doing that) and says, “Ready?”

“Ready,” he responds, grinning back (like an _idiot_ ).

“By the way,” Jehan begins as they start to head out, shoulder to shoulder (kind of — Jehan is a solid six to eight inches shorter than Courfeyrac), “have you happened to notice how crazy the resemblance is between this place and the Musain?”

Courfeyrac stops short and stares around at his place of work. “Holy _shit_ ,” he breathes. “It _does_ look like the Musain! How did I not notice that?!”

“I like it,” Jehan giggles. “It makes me think of home. You know, whatever that means.”

Courfeyrac smiles. “Yeah,” is all he manages to say. He knows what that means.

 

It takes almost an hour to get to the park because rush hour, but between the easy way it is to talk to Jehan about anything at all and the melodic way the littler man laughs with such frequency, it might have been less than a minute.

Once there, Jehan starts skipping around the park, leaping on and off rocks and darting around like he belongs in the woods with the fairies and the robins. Courfeyrac laughs after him and likes the way he can’t keep up, but then the sun sinks below the skyscrapers and Jehan retreats back to him like a child.

“It’s fucking _cold_ ,” he murmurs, hunching his shoulders against the wind.

The park will be closing in a few minutes anyway, but Jehan is hunching _toward Courfeyrac_ and how can he refuse that? So he strips off one glove and hands it to his poet.

Jehan looks at the glove thrust into his hand and then back up at Courfeyrac, slipping it onto his right hand. “What’s this gonna do?” he laughs as he does.

Courfeyrac just smirks and reaches out with his own right hand to twine his fingers around Jehan’s left, and then pull it towards him and slip it into the pocket of his jacket. “Better?” he asks, still smirking, and his heart trills at this flush on Jehan’s cheeks as he grins.

They stay like that for longer than necessary, strolling through the darkening park hand in warm hand, smiling at each other instead of watching for their wayward friends. Courfeyrac doesn’t mind. Jehan doesn’t seem to notice.

Until: “Shit, we’ve not been paying attention!”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I don’t think they’re here anyway.”

“But we can’t _know_ that!” But Jehan is laughing again. “They’ll kick us out of the park soon anyway, let’s do a quick sweep of the area. We’ll split up!”

“All right,” Courfeyrac concedes. “Fair enough.”

Jehan nods. “Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

It takes a minute for Courfeyrac to realize this is because his hand is still tangled with his own.

Jehan giggles. “You have to let go of my hand,” he says softly.

“No,” Courfeyrac refuses, bold, “I don’t want to.” He’s grinning, too.

Jehan’s eyes flit up to him in surprise and maybe something else. “Why not?” he asks almost innocently.

And Courfeyrac can’t answer because that would ruin everything. He can’t admit to the way the curve of Jehan’s mouth affects him, the way his smile is slowly falling into a slightly open, perfect bow shape with his full lower lip. He can’t surge forward and catch that mouth with his and kiss this perfect, crazy, magical boy in front of him until both of them are breathless.

He can’t.

So he lets go.

Jehan, staring up at green eyes — darker with the sunset — and gasping for air that won’t seem to come, flexes his cold fingers and wishes he hadn’t.


	14. Ajax

There’s a bar in Manhattan where Brian sometimes picks up shifts when he’s broke because the owner knows him and really likes him and his work ethic. So she keeps him technically on staff and whenever he needs extra money to pay rent and buy food, Brian comes over and picks up a few late shifts after his job at the theatre.

Which is exactly what he’s doing when that fascinating guy with the locs and the hooked, broken nose, comes sauntering into his bar and plops himself down on a stool about six feet from where Brian is making a cosmopolitan for the redhead in the corner from the loser in the other corner.

He’s so surprised by this sudden appearance, he almost forgets the vodka.

It also takes him a minute to realize that the words coming out of the guy with the nose are being directed at him.

“It has taken me _way_ too long to track you down,” he’s saying wearily, “why the _hell_ didn’t you stop and say something the other day?”

None of these words make sense. So Brian does the only sensible thing he can think to do, and stares blankly for a while until things sort themselves out.

But they don’t, and the nose guy just keeps staring back at Brian expectantly.

“Did you not see me?” nose guy asks after an uncomfortable amount of time has passed and Brian has continues to silently stare, holding a half-made cosmopolitan aloft. “I mean, you were looking right at me.”

Staring is not making any difference in the confusion aspect, and the nose guy is now looking at Brian like Brian might be actually having a stroke, so Brian opens his mouth to try to let words come out.

“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” he ends up sputtering, only half aware that one of his coworkers is gently taking the cosmopolitan out of his hand.

Nose Guy frowns. He looks almost distraught. “You don’t know me?” he asks softly.

“I’m sorry,” Brian says again, feeling genuinely contrite at the look on this guy’s face. “Should I?”

“God, you don’t remember at _all_ , do you?” Nose Guy breathes, sounding distressed. Then he says something that makes even _less_ sense: “Paris?”

Brian is completely lost. “I’ve never been out of the country?” he offers, and for some reason that actually makes Nose Guy _laugh_. That kind of knowing laugh that makes Brian feel like he’s being punked, which is not okay with him. He glowers and crosses his arms. “Hey, look, I think you have me mistaken with someone else, I don’t —“ But he doesn’t get to finish his protest because Nose Guy says one word and his whole life falls apart.

“Feuilly.”

It’s like the bar is caving in around him. Like he’s being sucked into some sort of black hole of gunpowder and friendship and revolution and love. He can’t see, can’t breathe. He remembers everything all at once and it’s _so overwhelming_ but it’s like his entire life makes sense now and he’s not sure if he’s crying or laughing, but a face swims back into his vision, and it’s grinning at him.

“Bahorel!” he manages to gasp out, and Bahorel hollers joyfully.

Feuilly wants to launch himself over the bar at his old friend, but he’s got just enough sense left to recognize how idiotic that idea is, so he settles for stumbling around it instead. Bahorel, grinning hugely, pushes himself off of his barstool to meet him, holding out his arms to catch Feuilly as he throws himself into them. They’re laughing and clutching at each other and Feuilly may or may not be crying, too, but neither of them gives one shit that people are looking because _goddamnit_ they haven’t seen each other since they were dying.

 

It’s about an hour later when Feuilly is poking at Bahorel’s arm at one of the tables at the back of the room.

“I watched you _die_ ,” he says for probably the third time.

“Yeah, that wasn’t my favorite moment, I gotta admit,” Bahorel laughs. “But, dude, could you have made it _any_ harder to try to find you I mean what the fuck?”

“How _did_ you find me?” Feuilly asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Bahorel grins, showing all his teeth. “I know people,” is all he’ll say in response. “ _Brian_.”

“Hey, not fair, I don’t know _your_ name here,” Feuilly protests.

Bahorel sticks out his hand. “Amon-Gilles Leon,” he says proudly. “Nice to meet you. Don’t call me Amon-Gilles.”

“That’s quite a name, sir,” Feuilly smirks, shaking his friend’s hand.

Bahorel shrugs. “Mom wanted me to represent both of her parents’ cultures, I guess.”

“French and. . .Egyptian?” Feuilly guesses. “Like the god Amon?”

Bahorel grins. “You’re good. I don’t expect you to guess from the name — although maybe the hair is a tip-off — that Dad is Jamaican. Which is me in a nutshell. What about you? Any French this time around?”

Feuilly laughs. “I have _no_ idea,” he says. “Never have. So what do you go by, then, if not _Amon-Gilles_?”

“Just Amon, usually,” Bahorel answers, leaning back and kicking one foot up onto the booth next to him. “I think I’d prefer Bahorel from you, though.”

“I think I’d prefer that, too, _Amon-Gilles_ ,” Feuilly agrees.

Bahorel kicks him under the table and he laughs. They drop into a comfortable quiet, Bahorel sipping at his coke and Feuilly watching him.

Then: “Are there others?” Feuilly asks suddenly. “Or is it just us?”

Bahorel shrugs. “I haven’t seen anyone, but I imagine they’re all here, too. I mean it’s like Greece, right? This is old hat.”

“Wait, what?” Feuilly says, confused. “Greece?”

Bahorel blinks at him, giving him that same _what is wrong with you?_ look again. “You don’t remember Greece?”

“Bahorel, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“We lived a long time ago,” Bahorel says seriously. “We were all in Greece before we were in France. Like people who you think are just from mythology, they were real and they were us. It’s wild. I just didn’t remember it until I saw you. You don’t remember Greece?”

Feuilly shrugs because no, he doesn’t, and that’s starting to worry him for some reason. “Who were you in Greece?”

“Ajax.”

“And who was I?”

Bahorel sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Feuilly frowns and shifts in his seat. He’s never known who he is.

It’s never bothered him until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HmmHMM the plot thickens!
> 
> Sorry about the long wait between chapters, folks. My life has been the definition of crazy lately and it's become a bit harder to find time to write. But I'm so so glad you all are enjoying the story so much, and I'm SO SO excited about where I'm going with it, so if you can just bear with me a bit, I'll keep updating as often as I can. :]
> 
> (p.s. feel free to come visit me over at jehans.tumblr.com if you wanna, I answer questions and stuff about this story and my other AUs over there sometimes.)


	15. Ariadne

“Oh, come on! You have to come!”

Jehan covers his mouth, trying not to giggle into his phone. For one thing, it would give him away to his bosses because he’s really not supposed to be hiding in the supply closet and talking on his phone to cute boys, and for another. . . .

Well, it would give him away to Courfeyrac.

Because Courfeyrac is _really_ cute and every time Jehan thinks about him, he can’t keep the grin off his face, the giggle out of his voice, the flutter away from his heart. He’s always thought highly of Courfeyrac, always respected him, always genuinely liked him, but here, with their memories of forever and the way Courfeyrac keeps trying to touch him, to hold his hand — the way Courfeyrac looks at him and smiles when he says his name — well, Jehan can’t help but wonder and hope for something new.

He lifts his fingers from his mouth to tug on the end of his braid. “Everyone’s going?” he asks, trying not to dwell too intensely on the fact that the braid he’s touching is once again the result of Courfeyrac’s thin, nimble fingers.

“ _Everyone_ ,” Courfeyrac confirms. “Joly’s professor is sick so his class was cancelled, I don’t have work today, and Combeferre is taking the afternoon off, _please_ you have to come!”

The end of the braid has found its way between Jehan’s teeth and he tries to figure out if he can afford to skip out of his (admittedly very boring) job after lunch so he can spend an afternoon by the river with Courfeyrac and the others.

“I don’t know. . . ?”

“Please, Jehan!” Courfeyrac begs. “It’ll be dull without you.”

The last bit is said softly, almost timidly, and Jehan’s heart does a backflip. They’re so, so close again, and he can feel it. Close to saying what neither of them will say, what neither of them can say. Jehan sucks in his breath.

“All right,” he lets out in a gust. “I’ll find a way to get off.”

“Yes!” Courfeyrac shouts, and his voice is distant like he’s thrust his arms out in victory. Then he’s back. “I’ll see you in a few hours!”

When they hang up, Jehan has to take a moment to lean against the wall of the supply closet and let out a soft keening sound before he can collect himself and go back to his job.

 

When Jehan gets to the promenade after feigning illness after lunch and furiously texting Combeferre to figure out where his friends are, of course the first thing he sees is Courfeyrac hanging over the rail on the river side, staring out at the Manhattan skyline, the red of his hair alight with the sun, blown back by the wind, like the whole universe wants to bask in his beauty. He’s laughing, and he looks so _perfect_ , that Jehan has to actually stop for a second to catch his breath.

It’s the sight of Combeferre looking back at him that snaps Jehan back to reality and he coughs, embarrassed, but Combeferre’s expression is impassive, he merely smiles when Jehan meets his gaze and waves him over.

Courfeyrac turns around when he hears Joly calling out to Jehan and his face positively lights up.

“Jehan!” he cries delightedly. “You’re here! Look, we got you food!” He dives for the bench Joly and Combeferre are sitting on and picks up two paper plates folded over each other, a bit of pizza sticking out from between them, and thrusts it out toward Jehan. And it doesn’t matter that Jehan ate thirty minutes ago, he takes the offering joyfully.

And then Courfeyrac leans forward and kisses his cheek in greeting and Jehan goes bright red, his heart fluttering dangerously. He busies himself with the pizza to try to cover his blush and refuses to look up at Combeferre, who he _knows_ is more perceptive than he’s letting on.

Luckily, Joly is talking now, drawing attention away from the blood rushing to Jehan’s face.

Apparently the idea behind a day at the promenade happened because Combeferre had made the executive decision that Joly needed a break. Between med school and hospital shifts and the stress and disquiet of being completely unable to find the people he loves, Joly has been looking more and more wearied and haggard and Combeferre had had enough. The second Joly had texted him that his class had been cancelled and he was going to study in the library instead, Combeferre had taken the rest of the day off and dragged Joly away from his studies to do something calm but enjoyable. Courfeyrac has suggested the promenade and then insisted on bringing Jehan into the fun.

And it’s things like _that_ that make Jehan’s head spin every day with questions he only has vague answers for about half the time.

It’s the way Courfeyrac always wants to include him; the way he gets so excited when the two of them are going to team up to look for their friends together; the way he’s taken to holding him at night when they’re alone and sharing a bed; the way their hands find each other and fit and neither seems to want to let go.

But Courfeyrac could be like this with everyone, couldn’t he? He’s certainly physically affectionate with Joly and Combeferre, too, throwing his arms around their necks, curling up next to one of them on the couch when he gets home from work. He tries to include everyone in everything — he just loves when they’re all together and wants that always. But he doesn’t hold their hands, just Jehan’s. And every now and then when they talk to each other, it feels like they’re dancing close around something neither is yet willing to say, like putting their hands over a fire, not quite near enough to burn.

Jehan is entrenched in all these thoughts, buried in them, when Joly shouts something about being hungry.

Courfeyrac laughs, breaking through Jehan’s reverie. “We just ate!”

“ _You_ just ate,” Joly corrects. “I barely had anything after about ten this morning.”

“No, it’s fine,” Combeferre says soothingly like he always done. “There’s a sandwich shop a little down the street. I’m kind of hungry, too. Do you guys want to come or wait for us here?” he addresses Jehan and Courfeyrac.

“We’ll wait,” Courfeyrac answers cheerily for the both of them. “Jehan just got here and we haven’t had a warm day like this all year!” Then he grabs Jehan’s hand and yanks him over to the bench to sit.

“Okay, we’ll be back soon,” Combeferre tells them, but his hint of a smile as he and Joly turn to go send Jehan reeling into questions again.

“How was work?” Courfeyrac asks Joly and Combeferre head off.

“Fine,” Jehan sputters in response, still trying to sort his thoughts out. “Kind of boring, but that’s generally how it is.” Jehan works as a proofreader at a translation company, the most exciting part of his day is looking out for Oxford commas. “They might let me actually translate something soon, though, so that’s kind of exciting.”

“That’s awesome!” Courfeyrac crows, making Jehan blush a little. “God, I’m almost jealous, I wish I could speak a ton of languages.”

“I don’t speak a _ton_ of languages,” Jehan protests, blushing more.

“You speak like seven languages other than English!” Courfeyrac shouts.

“Not all fluently!”

But Courfeyrac is laughing and his laugh is catching, so Jehan is laughing too.

“I’m proud of you!” Courfeyrac announces. “Soon you’ll be running the place, I know it.”

Jehan smiles, but sighs. “I don’t think I want to run the place,” he admits. “I mean, I like it fine for now and my coworkers are cool, but I think I want to do something else with my life. Something bigger.”

Courfeyrac is watching him intently. “Do you know what?”

Jehan shakes his head. Courfeyrac grins. He turns and reaches behind the bench, leaning far over the back to grab at a bush behind them. When he returns, he’s got a rose between his fingers, which he offers to Jehan.

“To something bigger,” he says softly — _tenderly_ — as he hands the flower over. Jehan feels like he can’t think properly anymore. The rose smells sweet.

Courfeyrac giggles a little and nudges Jehan’s knee with his own.

“Courfeyrac —” Jehan breathes.

But Courfeyrac cuts him off by murmuring, “You look really nice today. I mean — fuck, you look nice all the time, but —” He’s stuttering and stumbling over his words and Jehan suddenly can’t breathe.

“Thanks,” he whispers back as Courfeyrac’s eyes flit down to his lips. “You. . . .” He wants to continue, but his brain is screaming, _kiss me kiss me kiss me,_ and he’s lost his grasp on any language he’s ever known.

Courfeyrac’s breathing sounds shallow, too. They’ve given up trying to speak now, and as Courfeyrac tilts forward a little, Jehan feels a thrill through his whole body.

But then he jerks back and Jehan spins around to see Joly and Combeferre coming back up the promenade, and for the very first time in any of his lives, curses his dear friends and wishes they would just _go away_.

Joly hands Courfeyrac a sandwich when they get to where he and Jehan are sitting.

“We assumed you’d pout if we didn’t bring your something,” he says off of Courfeyrac’s confused look.

Courfeyrac is laughing when his phone goes off and he starts digging in his pocket to answer it. But when he glances at the name on his screen, his laugh dies and his face goes pale. He drops the sandwich on the bench and stands up and turns away from them when he answers, like that will give him privacy.

“Hello?”

Joly looks at Combeferre awkwardly and Jehan tries not to hear what Courfeyrac is saying.

But he can’t miss it when Courfeyrac mumbles, “I’m so sorry, babe, I totally forgot. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

_Babe_.

There’s a terrible feeling in Jehan’s chest, like his heart is being carved out of his body. _Babe?_

“Yeah, I’ll see you soon. I’m so sorry! I know, I’m still sorry. Right. Okay, bye.”

Courfeyrac hangs up and turns back to his friends, guilt etched all over his face.

“I gotta go,” he says uncomfortably.

Combeferre sounds unendingly calm when he asks the question Jehan’s brain is screeching. “Who was that?”

“Um,” Courfeyrac begins, his face going slightly pink. “This girl I’ve been. . .seeing,” he says haltingly, staring down at his shoes. “She’s been out of town for the last two weeks, I promised I’d pick her up from the airport, I totally forgot.”

Joly is saying something in response and Courfeyrac is still staring at his shoes, so only Combeferre sees the absolutely devastated look that crosses Jehan’s face before he can pull himself together and pretend to be okay. He looks like he’s watching his world fall apart, and it hurts Combeferre to see it.

By the time Courfeyrac looks up at him, however, Jehan has arranged his face into a perfectly neutral expression. It doesn’t stop Courfeyrac from saying, “I’m so sorry, Jehan, I should have told you. It’s not —”

“Why would you have told me?” Jehan interrupts, his voice a little higher than usual, his laugh a little forced. “It’s your business, just because we’re friends doesn’t mean we should feel bad about not telling each other things.”

His shoulders are tight, like he really wants to wrap his arms around himself protectively, and he can’t meet anyone’s eyes for more than a second.

Courfeyrac blinks, stumbling back a little like he’s been hit. “Oh,” is all he says. “Okay. I didn’t. . . . Okay.”

Combeferre winces as Courfeyrac nods.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll see you guys later, then,” Courfeyrac says, his voice clipped. And then he turns and leaves, striding away as quickly as he can.

Combeferre turns immediately to Jehan while Joly frowns in worried confusion.

“Jehan —” he starts sympathetically, but Jehan shakes his head, forcing a smile as he stand up off the bench.

“No, it’s fine,” he squeaks. “I mean, why wouldn’t it be? Actually, I just remembered I have to run some errands, I’ll see you back at home?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre says compassionately. “Whenever you’re — done. Take your time, okay?”

“Mmhmm!” Jehan responds, too cheerily. “See you!”

And then he, too, is off in the opposite direction to Courfeyrac. Combeferre is pretty sure he has no idea where he’s going.

Joly looks concerned. “What just happened?” he asks, watching Jehan go.

Combeferre sighs. “They like each other,” he says sadly. “And they just fucked it up.”

“They what?” Joly asks. “Like. . .they want to be together?”

“Yeah, I think they do,” Combeferre says.

“But Courfeyrac is dating someone?” Joly is still trying to put the pieces together.

“And Jehan just made it sound like he doesn’t care.”

“But he obviously did?”

“And Courfeyrac obviously didn’t catch that.”

Joly looks from where he’s still watching Jehan retreat to where Courfeyrac has already disappeared and lets out a huff of air. “ _Fuck_.”


	16. Echo

Grantaire’s excuse is that they’re “making up for lost time,” which is kind of a terrible excuse anyway, and if they are, they’ve got an awful lot of time to make up for. But when they’re lying on top of each other on the couch and kissing until time blurs around them, Enjolras has trouble remembering to be annoyed.

He hums as Grantaire pushes himself further up over him, ducking his head to leave soft, loving kisses down the column of Enjolras’ throat.

“I can’t remember what I was going to do before you pulled me down here,” Enjolras sighs, and Grantaire chuckles.

“Shh,” he whispers, his mouth brushing against Enjolras’ again, “no talking, just kissing.”

And again, Enjolras can’t think of anything to argue with that.

That is, until Grantaire’s hand slips down the front of his pants.

“That’s not kissing,” Enjolras laughs into Grantaire’s mouth.

A grin is flashed in his direction. “It’s in the spectrum.”

Enjolras shifts so it’s harder for Grantaire to keep reaching down into his pants. “We should go to bed,” he says softly.

“Mm, yes we should,” Grantaire agrees, smirking and raising his eyebrows suggestively. 

“No,” Enjolras huffs, but he’s smiling, “I mean we should go to sleep. I have to work tomorrow, and you still have stuff you need at your place.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need to get up early for that,” Grantaire protests.

Grantaire has barely been home since they found each other. At first this was because Enjolras didn’t want to let go of him long enough to let him go home, but then Grantaire got comfortable here and started acting like it was his home too — a fact that made Enjolras feel weirdly warm inside. So this morning over breakfast, he’d done the next logical thing and suggested that Grantaire just move in here with him. This had led to Grantaire staring at him in wonder for a few seconds before launching himself across the room, seizing Enjolras by the front of his t-shirt, and kissing him until Enjolras felt lightheaded from lack of air and from love. He’d taken that as a yes.

“Come on,” Enjolras wheedles, scooting out from under Grantaire and pulling on his hand until he follows him to the bedroom. “Bed time.”

Enjolras manages to get them both into pajamas and bed, even though Grantaire keeps trying to derail him by sticking his tongue in his mouth. When they’re tangled around each other again, Enjolras presses a kiss to Grantaire’s face.

“I miss Combeferre,” he confesses. It’s been bothering him most of the day, but it’s only now, in the dark, in Grantaire’s arms, that he finds he can vocalize it.

Grantaire rolls over to look at him and frowns. “You’ve been thinking about Combeferre this whole time?”

“Oh, shut up,” Enjolras sighs, reaching up to brush his thumb over his love’s cheekbone. “I _love_ you. But I still miss Combeferre.”

Grantaire regards Enjolras for a minute, and Enjolras can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then, firmly, like he’s trying to prove something, he says, “I love you, too.”

“I know you do.” Enjolras shifts and tucks himself into Grantaire’s arms. Fingers slip into his hair and start carding through his curls.

“I’ll go look for him,” Grantaire offers quietly into his forehead. “Tomorrow, while you’re at work. Before I go get my stuff, I’ll look for Combeferre.”

Enjolras pushes up on his elbow to look down at Grantaire. “Are you serious?” he asks.

Grantaire smiles. “Yeah, sunshine, I’m serious.”

“You’d do that? You don’t even think he’s out there.”

“Orestes, I’d do anything for you,” Grantaire breathes, and then he can’t breathe at all anymore because Enjolras is kissing him fiercely enough to bruise.

 

Musichetta’s house feels empty, now. It used to be small and cosy and perfect for her. It was home. Now it feels cavernous and cold. Especially since James went home almost a week ago. She’s only felt this alone once before, after she buried two bodies and went home on her own. And she doesn’t like being reminded of that.

There have been no less than six times this week that she has almost called James and asked him to come back — just for an evening, for dinner — so she doesn’t have to be alone. This is the first time she doesn’t manage to stop herself.

“Yeah, hello?” James answers after only one ring.

“Hi,” Priya responds. “I, um. . . . I miss you. Do you think you could come over tonight? I’ll make poul peyi.”

There’s a brief, tense silence, and then: “How do you know how to make poul peyi?”

Priya smiles. “If you’d rather, I can make murgh makhani.”

James actually laughs at that and the sound makes Priya’s heart melt a little. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll be over in about an hour.”

Priya is well aware that James doesn’t need her to make the house nice for him, and her house is always neat anyway, but it’s not about making a presentation. She wants him to feel welcome here, to feel like this could be home. And for her, that means flowers on the tables and food cooking in the kitchen. It means warmth against the chill outside and light in the dark corners.

When James arrives, he looks around and he smiles.

“That smells like poul peyi,” he says.

Priya laughs, taking his coat and hanging it up by the door. “I told you I’d make it,”

“So you did,” James agrees, following her toward the kitchen. “Can I help at all?”

“No, go sit down,” Priya says, shaking her head and gesturing toward the table. “I’ll bring you food, go.”

James raises his hands in surrender and goes through to the little dining room to wait for Priya. She’s outdone herself, really, and James feels a twinge of something like guilt that she’s gone to so much trouble for him. There’s still something awkward and tense between them, and he wishes there wasn’t. He knows it’s his fault, too, but he doesn’t know how to fix it.

They’re halfway through the meal, making mostly casual small talk and trying to scale the unspoken wall between them, when James finally breaks.

“You understand it’s not you, right?” he asks, and it probably seems like it’s coming out of nowhere. Indeed, Priya’s eyes widen as she looks quickly up at him. “It’s just that you remind me of him,” James presses on thickly before he loses his nerve, “and I’m just. . .lost without him.”

Priya’s smile is sad and understanding. “I know,” she says reassuringly. “I am, too.”

“But you still live your life,” James argues, dropping his fork agitatedly and putting his hand on his head instead. “You’re stronger than me, you know what you’re doing, you go to work, you live. I feel like I can’t breathe without him, like I can’t move.” He breath is coming is shuddering gasps, now, and Priya is looking at him with a huge amount of compassion. “I just _ache_ ,” he moans, “all over. And it’s not gonna get better until I have him again.”

Priya’s been watching him gently this whole time, letting him talk until he’s done. When he draws in a shaky breath and lets his head fall heavily onto his hands, she rises from her seat and comes to kneel next to him instead, reaching out to comfortingly squeeze his arm.

“We’re going to be all right,” she whispers.

James wants so badly to believe her.

 

Going to bed is excruciating. Twenty-four hours ago, Jehan was wrapped up in Courfeyrac’s arms, his nose pressed into the sweet warmth of his neck. Ten hours ago, his mind was screaming at Courfeyrac to _kiss him_ and end this dance, to _start_ something. Even now, he’s fighting the yearning for Courfeyrac to roll over, to pull Jehan under him and kiss him senseless, to press their hips together, slip his hands under Jehan’s shirt, skate his fingers up over his ribs —

But now it hurts to even think about that, because now it all just feels like a lie.

For the past ten hours, Jehan has been trying to figure out what happened. He really thought there was something there, between them; but if Courfeyrac has a girlfriend, that means either he’s a massive jerk, or Jehan was reading way too much into this.

Or possibly both.

Neither option makes Jehan feel anything but sick to his stomach.

And now he has to sleep here, inches from the man he’s pretty sure he’s desperately in love with but can’t be with because that man is with someone else.

And that _hurts_.

Courfeyrac is still awake, too. They’re on polar opposite sides of the bed, facing away from each other, but Jehan can hear his breathing, and he’s not asleep yet. Jehan almost wants to say something, but there’s nothing that he can say. Nothing he wants to say. He wishes he didn’t have to sleep in this bed, but he’s trying _so hard_ to be okay with this that he’s stuck himself here.

He feels trapped.

But then Combeferre’s bedroom door opens and suddenly Joly appears like a goddamn knight in shining pajamas in front of Jehan, crouching down to be at his level. Jehan pushes himself up off the pillow and raises his eyebrows attentively, essentially desperate for something to distract him from all of this.

Joly smiles, but he looks a little sad. “Hey,” he whispers. “There’s a draft in Combeferre’s room right above my air mattress and I think it’s giving me a cold. Do you mind switching just for tonight?”

Jehan has scrambled out of bed and is tearing toward the bedroom before Joly can say anything else.

Courfeyrac watches him go over his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Joly whispers as he climbs into the sofa bed.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Courfeyrac shrugs, settling back down.

Joly frowns, but doesn’t say anything. He figures Courfeyrac isn’t one to clam up, he’ll talk if he wants to.

Which, apparently, he kind of does.

“I thought he liked me,” he confesses softly, staring up at the ceiling.

Joly rolls over on his side to look at Courfeyrac. “He still might?” he offers, but Courfeyrac shakes his head.

“No,” he breathes. “I was wrong.”

In Combeferre’s room, Jehan is burrowing as far under the covers as he can while Combeferre digs in the closet for another blanket because there really is a vent right above the air mattress and Jehan may actually secretly be cold-blooded.

When he finds one, he just drapes it over Jehan, then sits down on his bed and asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jehan says brightly because he can’t seem to bring himself to admit his heart is broken. “Sleep well.”

Combeferre smiles sadly and nods. “You too, Jehan.”

When he turns out the light, Combeferre thinks he can hear Jehan sniffling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr!](jehans.tumblr.com)  
>     
> look! an edit for this fic!  
> http://pamillise.tumblr.com/post/54876763534/im-boreddddddd-so-i-made-this-p-is-based-on-they
> 
> (if you make something based on this and you want me to see it you can always tag it on tumblr with "#they shall have stars" or "#jehans" OR you can send it to my ask :D )


	17. Myrtle

Grantaire has a key because he lives here now. He still has trouble believing that’s true — that he _lives with Enjolras_ — but he has a key because he lives here.

Enjolras is home when Grantaire opens the door, lying on the couch with one hand over his face, and Grantaire suddenly gets a picture of how much being here without the others — without Combeferre — is breaking Enjolras.

“Hey,” Grantaire calls out to him softly, and Enjolras pulls him hand off his face to look up at Grantaire, then extends that hand out to him, inviting him over.

Grantaire goes to him, dropping the bag of stuff he brought with him from his old place onto the floor as he does, and then perches on the edge of the couch next to his boyfriend, reaching out to card his fingers through gilt curls. Enjolras smiles softly up at him.

“How are you doing?” Grantaire asks him gently, knowing the answer already.

Enjolras shrugs in response, then asks quietly, “Will you come here?”

“I’m right here.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No,” he says, “closer.”

So Grantaire shifts and climbs up over his love, bending over him to place a soft, sweet kiss to Enjolras’ lips, making Enjolras smile grow a little bit more.

Grantaire’s knees are on either side of Enjolras’ legs now, and Enjolras’ hands come up to brush over the hem of his shirt, his fingers flirting with the buttons.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks softly while Grantaire tries to catch his breath at this.

“Sure,” Grantaire whispers back, but he’s having trouble concentrating because Enjolras’ fingertips have burrowed their way to bare skin and are now skating over Grantaire’s abdomen.

Enjolras frowns a little and bites his lip before he says anything. Grantaire fights the urge to bite that lip himself.

Finally, Enjolras speaks. “Do you remember that time in France when you were teasing Pontmercy because he was in love?”

Grantaire visibly winces because he’s pretty sure he knows what Enjolras is about to ask, but he cocks his head anyway and breathes, “Which time?”

If he didn’t know better, Grantaire would swear that the corners of Enjolras’ mouth quirk just a little as his impossibly blue eyes finally flick up from Grantaire’s shirt to his face. “‘ _Tymbraeus Apollo’?_ ” he asks wryly.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Grantaire moans, letting go of Enjolras’ sides to cover his face with his hands.

But Enjolras is shifting under him, sitting up a little bit, and when fingers wrap around Grantaire’s to pry his hands away from his eyes, Enjolras’ face is inches away from him and he’s looking at Grantaire with something like a focused _tenderness_ which makes Grantaire absolutely shiver.

“All that stuff about ‘coupling in the infinite’ and ‘sleeping together in the stars,’ ” Enjolras presses, his voice quiet and his focus intense. “Was that about me?”

Grantaire almost rolls his eyes. He huffs and turns red and squirms a little. But then he says, “What do you fucking think?” and Enjolras’ ensuing smile, soft and a little hazy, knocks his breath away again.

Enjolras’ hands slip up to Grantaire’s face and he presses in to kiss him. It’s gentle at first and light, but Enjolras is persistent, pressing kiss after short kiss to Grantaire’s lips, until Grantaire is practically melting against him.

Between these soft little kisses, as Grantaire starts pulling on Enjolras to draw him even closer, as close as he can possibly get until they fuse into each other forever, Enjolras murmurs against Grantaire’s mouth, “I love you, too.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Grantaire replies, grinning into their kisses. “How did you _just_ figure out all of that was about you?”

“It was very romantic,” Enjolras says, pointedly ignoring the insult and the question.

“Which is _entirely_ lost on you —” Grantaire begins, but then Enjolras employs a more effective way of shutting Grantaire up which involves a lot of his tongue in Grantaire’s mouth and Grantaire cuts off in a seductive huff.

When Enjolras pulls away after a moment, he gives Grantaire a smirk filled with mischief.

“Would you like to move to the bedroom?” he asks breathlessly, and Grantaire sucks in a waft of air.

“I’d be all right with just doing it right here,” he responds, and Enjolras gives him a look, but kisses him again anyway.

“Bedroom,” he huffs as soon as their lips part, “ _now_.”

And, well, Grantaire is not going to say noto that.

 

Jehan stares up at the roofs of the buildings surrounding him, thinking deeply. He likes this view. People don’t usually look straight up like this, and the world looks so completely different like this. He just had to get out of that house. He couldn’t bear to spend another minute around Courfeyrac, feeling the way he does and not being able to do anything about it. Jesus, this is hard. This is so, so hard, and he never wanted this. He had no idea Courfeyrac was seeing someone, if he had he wouldn’t have —

Well. That’s neither here nor there, now, isn’t it?

He so badly needed to get away he took a bus to the Brooklyn Bridge and then walked the length of the bridge, and how he’s just wandering around downtown Manhattan, staring up at the sky.

He’s walking aimlessly down Lafayette Street when he stops in a small park, not catching the name of it, and decides to plant himself on a bench while he contemplates.

Courfeyrac is seeing someone. And he didn’t say anything about it to Jehan, despite the fact that things have most definitely been extremely flirty between them the past week or so, that Courfeyrac keeps holding his hand, snuggling him in bed, and looking at him very much like he wants to kiss him. People with girlfriends don’t do that. Holding hands and cuddling — at least the way Courfeyrac and Jehan have been doing it — isn’t a platonic act. Not like that. Not like this.

So why didn’t Courfeyrac tell him he was seeing someone else? Why did his girlfriend never come up in conversation while they were sleeping next to each other — while Jehan was sleeping _wrapped in Courfeyrac’s arms?_

He can’t sit here and believe that Courfeyrac is just a massive dick, that’s not the man he knows. It’s not the man he’s ever known, not here and definitely not in France.

It just doesn’t make sense. Jehan can’t make sense out of even a moment of it. Courfeyrac was always a flirt, that’s true. But he’s never been a jerk. He’s never been mean like this.

So what the fuck happened?

Jehan’s phone starts to buzz, so he pulls it out of his pocket, his fingers tingling in the cold air of dusk.

It’s a text from Combeferre. _I just got home and Courf said you left two hours ago. No one has heard from you so I wanted to check on you. Are you okay?_

Jehan sends back, _Yeah, I’m okay. I’m in Manhattan. I needed space._

It’s not long before he receives his response. _I understand. Let me know when you’re heading back, okay? I’ll make sure there’s food for you here if you want it._

Jehan can’t help but smile at his phone, despite the hot tears filling up his eyes. He’s so grateful for Combeferre. So glad to be with friends who love and understand him.

If only he could understand Courfeyrac right now.

Jehan tilts his head back and raises his eyes back to the sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (quietly drops in new chapter after long absence and then scampers away)


	18. Polynices

Joly is a stronger man than his appearance leads many to believe. He’s always been a worrier, sure, and he’s painfully aware of how many things are capable of crawling inside his skin and killing him from within, but he lives his life in joy nonetheless, and that requires a great deal of strength.

He feels like medicine is part of his blood. He loves using science to solve problems and help people get better, it makes him feel like his life is really worth something.

And he feels like there’s a gaping chasm in his soul right now, being here without his two loves, but he still has his friends and his work and, despite everything, his hope.

However, that doesn’t keep him from practically doubling over when a particularly strong memory hits him in the middle of his hospital shift.

It’s happening pretty regularly now, the need to bolt for an on-call room or a bathroom stall so that he can gasp for air through tears as he remembers. Bossuet laughing as he stretched out on the floor of Joly’s flat. Watching Musichetta pin her hair up after a night together while Bossuet lays kisses along the back of his neck. Briseis’ calm, cool hands covering his while they wait for their warrior to return from battle. Achilles’s mouth pressed, hot and wet, against his throat as his fingers sent him flying to high heaven. _I love you_ s whispered into dark spaces and open mouths.

It’s devastating. It’s making it hard for him to do his job. And it’s breaking him apart.

It’s been an excruciatingly long day by the time Joly gets back to Combeferre’s apartment, and as he turns the key and opens the door to a silent room, part of him is devastated to realize that no one else is home. He lets out a defeated sort of sigh and slips into the kitchen to find something to eat — and then jumps, startled, when a small voice behind him calls out a gentle hello.

“Oh Jesus, Jehan,” Joly gasps after he spins around to see the smaller man standing behind him. “I didn’t realize anyone was home.”

Jehan smiles, but it’s sad. “Just me,” he says softly, then sighs. “Are you all right?”

Joly almost laughs. “Me?” he asks, because Jehan is clearly upset right now. “Are you?”

Jehan shrugs, his too-big sweater swallowing his shoulders. Then he pushes a lock of hair out of his face and says, “You look sad, Joly.”

“It was just —“ Joly sighs sharply. “It was a long a day.”

Jehan nods, then holds out a hand toward Joly. “Come with me,” he says firmly, giving Joly no real option but to let himself be led by the hand back out of the apartment.

 

It’s not that Éponine was unaware of how tough this was going to be — in fact, she was very aware of exactly how difficult raising her kid brother was going to be — but the past two weeks have been really, _really_ tough.

First of all, Mikey may be exactly like he was as Gavroche, resilient and brave, with a soul that soars when faced with hardships, but he’s still a kid who was wildly neglected by his parents, and she is fully aware of the scars that leaves on you. Plus, he’s recently remembered that he’s lived and died twice before this. So the fact that he got in a fight in school the other day really shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise.

It did mean Lily had been forced to leave work early and go to Mikey’s school to “work through the problem.” And then she’d had _no_ idea what to do when they got home, because as much as Mikey shouldn’t have started throwing punches, from what he’s told her, she kind of thinks he was totally validated in doing so. The kid he’d punched had been throwing slurs at him and physically pushing him around, and with a kid who’s used to being treated as something less than human, if he was going to stand up for himself, Éponine doesn’t particularly think that’s something she should tell him _not_ to do.

And it’s possible that that makes her a bad parental figure, which isn’t a fun thought.

She’s been stressed and crazed and she has no idea what she’s doing, and to top it all off, yesterday she remembered a face and a name and a kind word that knocked the wind out of her.

Marius.

She has no idea how she didn’t remember him before, but her old lives have been coming back to her in bits and pieces — a flash of Greece as she pulls up to work, and wave of France while she’s cooking dinner — and she’s been so busy trying to keep herself and her ten-year-old brother alive the past few weeks that she only just remembered the only person in her last life who ever actually showed her some kindness.

Every time she thinks about him it hits her again, and she hates herself for being so hung up on a heartache from almost two hundred years ago, but it still hurts like it was yesterday. Which is why she ends up sitting on the floor of the kitchen, trying to hold back tears when Gavroche comes home from school.

He stops when he sees her and frowns. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t cry in front of people. She never has. She stands up and scrubs at her eyes and mumbles, “I’m fine.”

It’s a testament to how well Gavroche gets it that he doesn’t say anything else.

 

“Where are we going?”

Joly has been letting Jehan lead him silently down the streets of Brooklyn for the past ten minutes, but he’s starting to feel like they’re not actually getting anywhere.

Finally, Jehan stops and turns back to Joly, wrapping his coat around himself and bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep warm. “Go ahead,” he says simply.

Joly frowns. “And do what?” he asks. “Where are we?”

“We’re far enough away from the apartment that Courfeyrac and Combeferre aren’t going to walk in on us. Now go ahead.”

“I don’t understand,” Joly says, shaking his head. “Go ahead and what?”

“Cry,” Jehan answers. “Scream. Yell, talk, I don’t care, anything you need to do, do it.”

“Here?” Joly asks, but tears are definitely pricking behind his eyes. They’re standing in front of a small, empty playground, but it seems like a weird place for a breakdown.

Jehan nods. “Yes. Here. It’s just you and me here, and everything you’re feeling, I get. I know you miss them, and I know you’re trying hard not to show how much, so get it all out right now, and then you can go back to pretending you’re not dying inside.”

Joly sniffs. “How do you know I’m doing that?” he asks, his voice thick.

Jehan blinks back his own tears and swallows before he answers, “Because I’m doing it too.” He gasps a little sob. “Not for quite the same reason, and not quite the same way, but I am. And I think you and I are so worried about making the others feel bad, too, that we won’t admit it, and we need to admit it.”

Joly’s face crumples and he tuns and walks into the little park to sit on one of the benches. Jehan follows him and sits next to him, placing one hand lightly on Joly’s shoulder while the other hand swipes at the tears falling out of his eyes.

It’s seeing Jehan cry, too that does it. Joly breaks down. He’s sobbing onto Jehan’s shoulder while Jehan holds him and cries with him, and it feels. . . _good_ somehow. Like letting the clouds break and rain finally fall is cleansing. Cathartic.

It takes a while. A long while. But eventually it stops. The tears stop coming and Joly sniffs, wiping at his running nose, and emerges out of Jehan’s embrace.

He sighs shakily. “I miss them so much,” Joly eventually says simply. Lamely.

Jehan, eyes shining, nods.

“I do, too.”


End file.
